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MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 


Hadn't  he  come  home  several  times  lately   to  find  Smither's  silly 
black  rihbons  dangling  over  the  teacups? 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 


BY 

GELETT  BURGESS 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
HENRY  RALEIGH 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Copyright,  1917,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

":  *  Published' $epte#fyrK  2917 


TO 

E.  L.  B. 

FROM 

G.  B. 

PARIS  1916-17 


M22182 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Had  n't  he  come  home  several  times  lately  to  find 
Smither's  silly  black  ribbons  dangling  over  the 
teacups? Frontispiece 

Said  Lester  Hope :    "  I  'm  an  attorney  at  law  "     .     .      9 

"  You  were  surrounded  by  admirers,  and  I  could 
not,  would  not,  force  myself  on  your  notice !  "  47 

"Where  did  this  carnival  of  roses  come  from?"     .     65 

Was  n't  she  always  saying  how  clever  he  was,  and 
how  sensitive? 75 

There  was  a  small  oblong  hole  in  the  paper,  through 
which,  quite  unsuspected,  he  could  watch  his 
wife 107 

"  I  've  —  Oh,  it 's  sickening  to  have  to  tell  you,  but 
—  I  Ve  fallen  in  love,  Lester  —  at  least  I  think 
I  have  " 141 

"  Where  did  you  get  this?  "  Pauline  was  demanding  151 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 


WHO  was  she?  Just  another  of  the 
smart  and  daringly  gowned  guests  in 
vited  by  Mrs.  Woodling?  As  she  sauntered 
across  the  wide  drawing-room  floor,  laughing 
and  trifling  so  nonchalantly  with  her  escort, 
her  careless  scarf  artfully  trailing  off  a  white 
shoulder,  all  eyes  followed  her.  Bored,  stiff 
gentlemen  awoke;  laughing  ladies  suddenly 
ceased  their  chatter;  some  of  the  more  dis 
cerning  began  to  wonder.  Who  was  she? 
Wasn't  she  almost  too  charmingly  distin 
guished  for  a  mere  millionaire  ? 

But  when,  fine  eyebrows  lifted,  she  held  out  a 
graceful  white-gloved  hand  and  exchanged  the 
first  bright  smiles  with  her  eagerly  welcoming 
hostess  —  no  longer  was  there  any  question 
about  it.  Indubitably  she  was  the  lion  of  the 
evening. 

3 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

But  the  gentleman  who  accompanied  her,  so 
tall  antf  dark  «and  'picturesque,  so  gracefully 
erect, ,  with ,  that  ..queer  unreadable  smile  —  was 
he  'f amousj  too  ?' ;  &y\the  fine  intellectuality  of 
his  face  —  yes,  possibly.  And  yet,  aristocratic 
and  interesting  as  he  seemed,  was  n't  he  a  little 
ill  at  ease?  That  defensive  reserve  —  wasn't 
it  somewhat  overdone?  Alas,  probably  not  a 
celebrity.  Feminine  eyes  were  already  desert 
ing  him.  As  his  bland,  bejeweled  hostess 
greeted  him  with  her  second-best  smile  —  oh, 
no,  certainly  not  a  celebrity  I  Only  a  husband. 
Glances,  disappointed,  returned  to  the  lady. 

Round  the  elaborately  paneled  room,  the 
gilded,  mirrored  room,  frescoed,  columned 
and  Louis  Quatorzed,  the  guest  of  honor's 
name  came  out  in  whispers. 

"  Mrs.  Hope,"  poet  informed  banker,  backed 
up  against  the  wall.  "  Mrs.  Hope,"  the  in 
quisitive  rosy  debutante  murmured  to  her  lor- 
gnon-peering,  white-haired  dowager  mama  on 
the  gold  settee.  "  Why,  you  know  —  Pauline 
Hope,  the  novelist  I  "  Aigrettes  nodded,  jewels 
flashed,  pink-powdered  shoulders  leaned  to 
crinkling  white  shirt  fronts.  "  Yes,  yes,  of 
course;  she  wrote  that  wonderful,  romantic  — 
4 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

why,  what  is  the  name  of  it,  now?  .  .  .  stun 
ning,  is  n't  she !  "  And  before  the  buzzing  flut 
ter  had  subsided,  Mrs.  Woodling,  expensive 
and  expansive,  had  bubbled  through  the  first 
effervescence  of  her  amenities ;  proudly  she  had 
passed  her  prize  along.  "  A  rare,  exotic  curi 
osity  of  my  own  private  collection,"  she  seemed 
to  smile :  "  inspect,  admire !  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  loved  it,  Mrs.  Hope! "  virginal 
voices  petted  her.  ..."  Perfectly  fascinat 
ing!"  ...  u  So  adorably  romantic!"  .  .  . 
"  Oh,  it  must  be  simply  wonderful  to  write!  " 
how  the  blue  eyes  beamed !..."!  suppose  it 
just  drips  off  your  pen,  Mrs.  Hope,  does  n't 
it  ?  "  .  .  .  "  Oh,  I  do  wish  you  'd  put  me  in  a 
book,  some  time !  " 

And  thus,  as  one  after  another  flatterer  was 
brought  up  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Hope  —  or  talk 
at  her  —  and  her  husband,  elbowed  aside  with 
careless  "  beg  pardons,"  gradually  edged  off  to 
ward  the  wall  —  the  season's  literary  favorite 
graciously  accepted  her  homage. 

How   smiling   she   was,    how   affable!     As 

Pauline  Hope  the  novelist  she  may  have  winced 

at  times  as  the  inevitable  glib  inanities  gushed 

for  her ;  but  Pauline  Hope  was  not  only  a  nov- 

5 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

elist,  she  was  a  woman.  Any  shrewd  ob 
server  —  such  as  her  frowning,  proud  husband, 
for  instance,  seeing  what  only  a  suffering  lover 
can  see  —  might  have  suspected  that  this  first 
full  taste  of  social  success  was  refreshening  her 
very  soul.  With  what  histrionic  zest  she  was 
throwing  herself  into  the  part  of  handsome- 
and-accomplished !  —  with  what  modest  depre 
ciation,  too,  of  her  fame! 

But  if  her  pose  was  woman-easy,  her  hus 
band's,  obviously,  was  hard.  High  though  his 
chin  was  held  (suspiciously  high,  even),  he 
withdrew  more  and  more  into  himself  as  he 
withdrew  from  the  ignoring  crowd.  Almost 
cynically  he  watched  her  till  at  last  she.  was 
captured  from  the  Philistines  by  a  pair  of  enor 
mous  tortoise-shell  spectacles  and  a  pointed 
beard.  He  smiled  as  the  editor  Peever  —  the 
classic,  stoop-shouldered  Peever  —  claimed  her 
as  his  lawful  prey;  for,  in  that  crowd,  even 
Peever  could  not  hold  her  long.  From  the  at 
mosphere  of  diamonds  and  dollars  she  was 
soon  borne  away  in  triumph  to  a  rarer,  loftier 
air,  breathed  by  an  inner  circle  of  intellectuals, 
birds  of  a  still  finer  feather.  These,  as  am 
bitious  Mrs.  Woodling  fondly  cooed,  had  all 
6 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  done  something  " ;  and  here  Pauline  Hope 
was,  henceforth,  to  shine. 

Over  her  bared  white  shoulder,  "  Follow  me, 
Lester,  follow !  "  her  backward,  questing  glance 
had  seemed  to  call.  Oh,  yes,  she  wanted  him, 
no  doubt.  But  what,  in  the  name  of  all  these 
snobs  and  toadies,  was  the  use?  Well  he 
knew,  by  this  time,  what  brand  of  patronage  — 
snubs  or  worse  —  to  expect  of  them.  He  was 
sensitive,  he  was  fine-grained  —  and  he  was 
married  to  a  celebrity.  He  was  "  Mrs.  Hope's 
Husband!" 

In  the  companies  where  they  had  appeared 
together  since  her  first  public  recognition,  he 
had,  so  far,  endeavored  to  hold  his  own  with 
dignity.  But  now  his  pride  had  begun  to  re 
volt.  This  evening,  as  he  was  removing  his 
coat,  upstairs,  he  had  been  introduced  to  a 
bearded  and  spectacled  professor,  only  to  hear, 
"  Ach,  Mr.  Hope !  Not  de  huspant  of  our  so- 
distinguished  friend  Pauline  Hope  de  novelist, 
yes?" 

He  still  loved  his  wife;  he  was  proud  of  her 

success.     But  that  he  himself  should  have  to 

pay  for  it  so  dearly  he  had  never  anticipated. 

Why  should  he  submit  any  longer  to  being 

7 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

treated  as  a  nonentity?  Nonentity!  Why, 
was  n't  it  worse  even  than  that  ?  To-night,  he 
could  n't  be  even  simply  Lester  Hope.  Other 
men,  respectable  and  otherwise,  with  brains 
and  without,  seemed  here  to  be  willingly  ac 
cepted  at  their  face  value.  He,  however,  with 
a  professional  record  of  which  he  was  in  no 
wise  ashamed,  was  only  "  Mrs.  Hope's  Hus 
band!" 

Yet,  while  he  was  present  at  such  congrega 
tions  of  tuft-hunters,  escape  seemed  impossible. 
Even  as  he  stifled  his  pride  and  brooded,  nerv 
ously  twisting  his  mustache  and  the  little  tuft 
on  his  lower  lip,  watching  the  universal  adula 
tion  of  his  wife,  Mrs.  Woodling,  like  a  som 
nambulist,  glassy-eyed,  obsessed  with  a  fixed 
idea,  was  bearing  magnificently  down  upon  him 
with  a  large  lady  in  tow.  Stoically  he  awaited. 

Ah,  yes,  it  came  — "  Mrs.  Poppity,  I  want 
you  to  meet  '  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband  ' !  "  The 
blow  accomplished,  his  hostess,  smiling,  oh,  so 
sweetly  smiling,  slipped  away. 

The  round-eyed  matron  in  black  satin  was  as 
soft  and  silly  as  only  a  huge  woman  in  black 
satin  can  be.  Fan  lifted,  gazing  at  him  dream 
ily,  "And  what  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hope?"  she 
8 


Said    Lester    Hope:     "I'm   an   attorney    at   law" 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

breathed ;  "  ah,  something  won-derful,  I  'm 
sure !  "  And  then,  waiting  for  no  answer,  her 
round,  near-sighted  eyes  rolled  away  to  the 
other  side  of  the  crowded  room,  where  Pauline 
reigned. 

Lester  Hope  looked  at  her,  and  looked  in  no 
kindly  mood.  Said  Lester  Hope,  "  I  'm  an 
attorney-at-law." 

Surprised  and  shocked,  the  round  eyes  sud 
denly  returned,  as  if  for  explanation  of  a  jest 
too  subtle  for  her  brain ;  and  then,  embarrassed, 
she  began  to  prattle  very  hurriedly.  But  when 
she  got  down  to  rheumatism  and  the  weather, 
he  finished  her  off  with  the  excuse  that  his  wife 
was  again  beckoning  him,  and  if  Mrs.  Poppity 
would  pardon  him,  he  really  must —  As  he 
left,  her  relief,  apparently,  was  as  large  as 
his. 

Toward  Pauline,  however,  he  did  not,  could 
not,  go.  Under  the  sparkling  crystals  of  a 
chandelier,  surrounded  by  men,  he  caught  sight 
of  her,  flushed  and  radiant.  A  shock  of  musi 
cal  black  hair  was  being  emotionally  shaken  be 
side  her;  she  was  attended  by  Poetry  (with  a 
broad,  black  silk  ribbon  depending  from  his 
eye-glasses),  as  she  collogued  Drama,  fierce  in 
ii 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

a  red  mustache,  and  dry,  whiskery  Architec 
ture. 

Lester  watched  her  pensively.  Well,  she 
was  happy;  she  had  "done  something."  De 
lightedly  she  was  receiving  the  Right  Hand  of 
Fellowship  as  a  new-comer  to  Fame.  There, 
he  too  should  be,  longed  to  be,  with  those 
choice  spirits,  the  brains  of  New  York.  But 
be  with  them  as  a  mere  appendage  he  could  not. 
He  had  no  "  tag  "  to  his  name  —  except  that 
damnable,  that  humiliating  one  that  still  rang 
in  his  ears  like  the  tin  can  on  a  dog's  tail  — 
"Mrs.  Hope's  Husband!"  wherefore,  his 
pride  compelled  him  to  lurk  on  the  ragged 
edges  of  intellectuality,  the  limbo  of  half  wits. 

From  the  pompous  prattle  of  a  lank  youth 
who  would  criticize  plays  (but  could  n't  write 
them),  and  a  jolly  big  broker  with  a  gold  tooth 
who  had  just  published  an  almost-original 
"  Life  of  Napoleon  "  (at  his  own  expense),  he 
turned,  resignedly,  to  slip  the  pale  graces  of 
Helen  Ramsay,  a  mildly  literary  friend  of  a 
certain  age  —  the  age  that  has  known  one  at 
college,  and  feels  privileged  to  whisper,  "I 
say,  Lester,  we  never  thought,  in  those  days 
when  you  were  an  editor  and  carrying  off  all 

12 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

the  prizes,  that  you  'd  have  a  wife  who  'd  be 
more  famous  than  you  were,  did  we !  " 

Mrs.  Woodling,  however,  was  one  of  those 
busy  hostesses.  It  was  against  her  principles 
to  let  any  one  linger  long  with  a  congenial  soul ; 
wherefore  Helen's  green  ear-rings  and  laven 
der  and  lace  were  soon  escorted  away  through 
the  throng  to  meet  a  more  appropriate  guest. 

Lester  Hope  nursed  a  sardonic  smile.  It 
was  quite  all  right,  of  course.  What  damned 
him,  apparently,  amongst  these  New  York  ink- 
worshipers,  was  merely  that  his  name  was  not 
printed  in  the  papers  or  between  covers. 
What  were  the  intricate  cases  he  had  argued 
before  the  Supreme  Court  compared  with  her 
magazine  stories  ?  Could  his  reputation  at  the 
bar  hope  to  compete  with  the  thrill  of  her  eld 
erly  lovers,  and  meek  self -sacrifices,  and  mis 
taken  identity?  Helen  Ramsay,  of  course, 
was  "  famous."  She  "  really  must  meet " 
What  's-his-name. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hope!"  came  a  thin  feminine 
voice  in  his  ear.  Ten  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  emeralds  confronted  him,  strung  on  a  skinny 
neck.  An  aged  head  was  grinning.  "  How 
proud  you  must  be  of  your  wife,  to-night,  Mr. 
13 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Hope !  Such  a  privilege,  I  'm  sure,  for  us 
poor,  matter-of-fact  souls  to  be  associated  with 
Real  Brains !  "  And  it  came  out,  in  smirks 
and  simpers  and  amiable  wrinkles,  that  My 
Daughter  Pearl  was  also  literary,  Mr.  Hope, 
She  too  had  real  brains.  It  was,  oh,  it  was 
too  bad,  Mr.  Hope,  that  he  could  n't  have  heard 
a  paper  that  My  Daughter  Pearl  had  written 
for  our  Fortnightly! 

Held  by  her  emeralds  and  her  eyes,  he  was 
rescued  only  by  supper;  and  as  the  faint  odor 
of  sizzling  lobster  called  her  joyously  away,  an 
other  provocative  perfume  brought  its  message 
to  his  own  nostrils.  So,  toward  the  altar  of 
masculine  peace  he  wandered,  musing  his  insig 
nificance,  to  burn  his  incense  at  her  shrine 
whose  aromatic  sweetness  makes  all  men 
brothers. 

In  a  remote  corner  of  the  billiard-room, 
where  a  few  men,  almost  as  disconsolate  as  he, 
were  fingering  their  watch  chains  and  yawning 
sulkily,  he  sat  down  to  inhale,  with  his  ciga 
rette,  a  few  pungent  truths. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  could  be  envious  of 
the  attention  his  wife  was  receiving?  Con 
science  indignantly  answered,  No.  To  be  sure, 
14 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

he  had  some  contempt  for  the  silly  fulsomeness 
of  the  tribute  paid,  in  such  places  as  this,  to  lit 
erary  achievement;  but  if  Pauline,  a  little  ro 
mantic  in  her  illusions,  cared  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  well,  had  n't  she  honestly  earned  it  ?  But 
why  —  why  should  he  be  made  the  sport  of 
fools?  Potentially,  at  least,  he  considered 
himself  quite  the  intellectual  equal  of  any  of 
those  whom  his  wife  found  so  brilliant,  and, 
"  Really  worth  while,  Lester ! "  Not  a  whit 
was  he  overpowered  by  the  roaring  lions  of  the 
Woodling  salon.  What,  then,  was  wrong? 
Half  amused,  half  contemptuous,  he  glanced 
about  at  the  burlesque  side-show  of  Mrs. 
Woodling's  intellectual  circus. 

Across  the  room  cards  flipped  on  a  table; 
and  some  one  said,  "Hearts!"  But  the  man 
beside  Lester  still  gazed  silently  at  the  portrait 
of  a  dead  pheasant  on  the  wall.  Beyond  him, 
other  moody  gentlemen  were  lost  in  their  high 
balls.  He  couldn't  understand  it.  Why,  he 
had  never  been  left  out  of  it  like  this  before! 
He  had  never  failed  to  be  sought  and  welcomed 
—  much  less  failed  even  to  be  considered. 
What  was  wrong  ? 

From  where  Lester  sat  he  saw,  slantwise 
15 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

through  the  portieres,  a  strip  of  the  flowery, 
red  velvet  hall,  where  violins  sobbed  plaintively 
to  an  accompaniment  of  babbling  voices  not  at 
all  plaintive,  as  brilliant  couples  passed  and  re- 
passed.  Suddenly,  for  one  bright  moment  he 
saw  —  Pauline !  —  Pauline,  in  her  gold-hued 
silk,  lovely  with  pearls,  smiling  up  at  a  hand 
some  blond  portrait  painter  with  a  Vandyke 
beard.  She  looked  about  a  moment,  as  if  for 
her  husband  —  and  was  gone. 

How  vivid  she  was,  to-night,  gleeful  with 
victory!  But  as  he  sat  there  smoking  reflec 
tively,  his  mind  drifted  off  to  another  world  — 
to  those  days  before  Fame  had  found  her.  .  .  . 
Had  n't  she  been  even  more  adorable  then  ? 
.  .  .  That  little  pink  dimity  frock  .  .  .  how 
proudly  she  had  told  him  ..."  only  seven 
cents  a  yard,  Lester," —  and  she  had  made  it  all 
herself!  .  .  .  Pauline  Forr!  Romantic,  en 
gaging  Pauline-of-the-Violets !  .  .  .  How  rap 
turously  she  had  seized  them  from  his  hand, 
that  day !  "  Oh,  Lester !  Think  of  it,  Lester ! 
Violets  in  January !  "  How  she  had  kissed 
them  — "  Oh,  you  darling  little  rascals !  " — 
kissed  them,  kissed  — 

"  Damned  bore !  "  grunted  the  man  beside 
16 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

him,  lighting  still  another  cigar,  and  beginning 
on  his  seventh  glass  of  whisky.-  "  Lord,  I  de 
spise  these  confounded  affairs! " 

The  shrugged  shoulders  of  Lester  Hope  un 
intentionally  endorsed  the  sentiment. 

"  Lots  of  good-looking  women,  though. 
Here,  waiter,  bring  me  another  Scotch!  Say, 
that  Mrs.  Hope  's  rather  clever,  I  expect,  is  n't 
she  ?  Pretty,  anyway.  Meet  her  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes."  But  Lester  Hope's  cigarette 
had  accidentally  dropped. 

"  What 's  her  husband  like?     Know  him?  " 

Lester  hesitated.     "  Oh,  yes, —  fairly  well." 

Uncomfortable  and  alarmed,  he  had  started 
to  rise  to  make  his  escape;  but  the  man  was 
holding  him  with  a  twinkling,  alcoholic  eye. 

"  He  must  feel  pretty  cheap,  I  should  think, 
tagging  along  after  her.  Here,  try  one  of 
these  Vencedoras."  He  yawned  and  hic 
coughed  behind  his  hand,  and  grinned,  "  Lord, 
if  my  wife  had  beat  me  out  like  that,  damned 
if  I  would  n't  stay  at  home."  Twisting  his 
perfecto  in  his  mouth  he  began  to  chuckle. 

"  Say  —  reminds  me  of  a  vaudeville  team 
fellow  told  me  about  once.  Wife  used  to  do  a 
heavy  acrobatic  stunt  and  practised  seven 
17 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

hours  a  day ;  earned  two  hundred  a  week.  Mr. 
Husband  stood  in  the  wings  for  twenty  min 
utes,  twice  a  day,  handing  her  the  '  props.' 
Then  he  'd  go  round  to  the  nearest  saloon  and 
brag  about '  Our  Act ' !  "  Poking  Lester  in  the 
side  with  his  thumb,  he  added,  "  Say,  this  chap 
Hope's  probably  about  like  that,  eh?"  He 
laughed  reflectively,  unctuously. 

As  a  horrified  guest  plucked  at  the  joker's 
sleeve  and  whispered  something  which  made 
him  sit  up,  sobered,  and  mutter,  "  Good  God ! 
He  is?  "  Lester  Hope  retreated  to  the  drawing- 
room,  blushing  hot  with  shame,  but  at  last  thor 
oughly  awakened. 

He  had  his  answer,  now.  Why,  if  he  had 
grown  so  negative  and  insignificant  that  a  man 
could  assume  from  his  mere  appearance  that  he 
was  a  nobody  —  well,  he  must  have  fallen  a 
good  deal  below  par.  Why  should  he  have 
crawled  away  and  hidden  amongst  these  merely 
Husbands?  What  the  devil  had  he,  Lester 
Hope,  to  be  ashamed  of  ?  Was  n't  it  manlier, 
after  all,  to  swagger  about  "  Our  Act,"  than  to 
sneak  off  with  his  tail  between  his  legs  ? 

Yes ;  he  was  making  more  of  a  fool  of  him 
self  than  they  were  of  him.  Either  he  should 
18 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

swallow  his  infernal  pride  and  be  honestly, 
openly  proud  of  his  wife,  or  else  stay  decently 
at  home  and  let  the  Mrs.  Poppitys  of  this  fool 
ish  bookish  world  forget  him. 

And  before  he  had  left  that  swarming  house 
that  night  that  was  what  Lester  Hope  had 
firmly  decided  to  do. 


II 

S.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND!"  For 
days,  to  the  confusion  of  every  other 
idea,  the  phrase  had  rung  in  his  ears.  "  Mrs. 
Hope's  Husband,  Attorney-at-Law,"  he 
seemed  to  read  at  the  top  of  his  office  station 
ery  ;  and,  at  the  bottom  he  had  all  but  written, 
"  Yours  truly,  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband."  Every 
bookstore  he  passed  called  out  to  him,  "  Mrs. 
Hope's  Husband !  "  That  miserable  ghost  of 
his  mortified  self  had  worked  and  walked  home 
with  him.  Nor  did  it  leave  him  even  there. 
Once  the  key  was  turned  and  the  door  of  his 
smart  little  Georgian  house,  opening,  showed 
the  hall,  trim  and  elegant  with  its  white  wood 
work  and  curling  stairway,  lo,  the  specter  was 
ready,  awaiting  him. 

That  specter,  seated  mockingly  upon  the 
floor,  was  a  huge  package  wrapped  in  brown 
paper.  It  was  the  regular,  fat,  monthly  offer 
ing  of  books  from  Peever,  her  publisher,  ad 
dressed  to  "  Mrs.  Pauline  Hope."  "  But  why 
20 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

the  devil  not  '  Mrs.  Lester  Hope  '  ?  "  he  ques 
tioned  sulkily.  On  a  tray  was  the  usual  pile  of 
letters.  The  envelopes  were  almost  all  ad 
dressed  also  to  "  Mrs.  Pauline  Hope  " ;  as  if, 
indeed,  she  were  already  a  widow ! 

Depressed,  his  aristocratic  appearance  al 
ready  a  little  dimmed,  he  went  into  the  long, 
low  library.  Those  rows  of  books  and  books 
had  often  sheltered  him  in  a  port  of  peace. 
But  to-night  his  own  books  reproached  him. 

Sighing,  he  listlessly  took  up  the  evening 
paper.  His  eyes,  after  a  while,  fell  upon  the 
society  notes.  Yes,  there  it  was !  At  the  very 
end  of  a  list  of  "  those  present  "  at  the  Wood- 
ling  reception  he  read :  "  Miss  Helen  Ram 
say,  Mr.  Saul  Tremlett,  and  Mr.  L.  Hope,  the 
husband  of  the  distinguished  novelist."  The 
paper  sailed  across  the  room.  Surely  it  was 
high  time  for  him  seriously  to  consider  his 
problem ! 

"Mrs.  Hope's  Husband!"  He  — Lester 
Hope!  Long  he  sat  and  pondered  it.  He, 
with  his  high  pride  —  a  mere  possession ! 
How  had  he  ever  become  so  negative,  he  who 
had  so  often  been  called  magnetic ! 

Was  it  just  another  of  the  many  comic  trage- 
21 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

dies  of  the  too-early  marriage  —  one  partner 
going  on  and  the  other  lagging  behind  in  ar 
rested  development?  Bang!  His  fist  came 
down  on  the  table.  No!  Downtown  he  was 
positive  enough.  Men  respected  him,  admired 
him;  and  women  had  shown  him  favor.  He 
felt  strength  in  him.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
timid  mortals  whom  success  had  never  touched. 
At  college,  in  the  polo  field,  and  before  the 
bar  he  had  proved  it.  Yes,  in  his  own  way  he 
too  had  won.  But  he  had  n't  happened  to  win 
in  hers. 

Spontaneously,  out  of  the  past,  a  picture 
came  —  a  day  in  their  first  suburban  home 
when  she  had  been  so  happy  that  she  had  been 
almost  afraid  it  might  not  last.  With  what 
devoted  courage  she  had  said,  "  Promise  me, 
Lester,  let  us  promise  each  other  that  if  the 
time  should  ever  come  when  our  love  changes 
ever  so  little,  we  will  be  honest  with  each 
other!" 

Would  that  time  ever  come?  Was  it,  per 
haps,  even  now  well  on  the  way?  Could  this 
new  success  of  hers  possibly  separate  them? 
And  if  it  did,  would  she  be  honest,  would  she 
tell  him?  .  .  .  Like  a  warning,  the  ringing, 
22 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

ringing  of  a  bell  awakened  him  from  his  revery. 

"  Hello!  Yes  ...  yes."  He  had  gone 
across  to  Pauline's  desk  and  taken  up  the  tele 
phone.  "  No,  she  's  not  at  home  yet  ...  I 
don't  know  .  .  .  Yes,  probably."  Then,  his 
face  clouded  and  he  smiled  bitterly.  "  Yes, 
this  is  '  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband.'  .  .  .  Very 
well,  Mrs.  Tremlett,  when  she  comes  in."  The 
receiver  struck  the  hook  with  a  whang.  Even 
in  his  own  home  he  could  n't  escape ! 

Well  —  his  wife,  he  recalled,  was  that  after 
noon  reading  from  her  own  "  works  "  at  some 
precious  woman's  club.  There  was,  as  usual, 
"  something  on  "  for  the  evening  —  something 
of  Peever's  contriving,  with  people,  of  course, 
who  had  "  done  something."  But  Lester  Hope 
had  decided  not  to  be  there;  and  he  antici 
pated  a  rather  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  breaking 
the  news  to  Pauline. 

After  she  had  come  laughing  home,  how 
ever,  and,  with  an  impulsive  kiss,  had  joyously 
invited  him  up  to  her  pretty,  feminine,  blue- 
chintz  room  while  she  dressed  —  combing, 
manicuring,  gossiping  of  her  female  adorers  of 
the  afternoon,  and,  "  Where  is  that  cold 
cream?"  —  her  lips  saying,  "Oh,  but.  Lester, 
23 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

those  women  were  too  absurd,  really,"  while 
her  eyes  were  confessing,  "  How  I  love  their 
praise !  "  —  he  found  his  excuses  for  his  ab 
sence  that  night  accepted,  as  she  gazed  at  her 
self  in  the  mirror,  with  a  careless,  "  I  'm  so 
sorry,  dear,  you  can't  go !  " 

And  at  dinner,  later,  with  her  pile  of  letters 
at  her  plate,  as  she  took,  first,  a  spoonful  of 
celery  soup,  and  then  a  taste  of  buttered  flat 
tery  from  some  unknown  correspondent  — 
chattering  on  over  her  fish  of  how  Helen  Ram 
say  had  inquired  for  him,  and  "  Heavens,  an 
other  request  for  an  autograph!"  —  enthusi 
astically  attacking  her  roast,  seasoned  with 
"  Think  of  advertising  me  as  the  most  beauti 
ful  authoress  in  the  United  States !  "  but,  with 
the  olives,  only  nibbling  abstractedly  at 
"  Could  n't  you  really  manage  to  go  with  me, 
darling  —  or  come  for  me  later,  dear?"  and 
"  Oh,  what  is  this  ? "  as  she  read  another 
"  lovely "  review  of  her  book,  kindling  and 
glowing,  so  pleased  with  life  and  art  —  Lester 
Hope  smiled  to  think  with  what  ironic  ease  the 
scenes  often  pass  off  that  one  has  most  dreaded. 

He  was  working  on  an  important  case,  he 
had  told  her,  and  she  accepted  his  explanation 
24 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

without  suspicion.  Was  n't  she,  in  fact,  a  little 
too  ready  to  accept  it  ?  Did  n't  she  change  the 
subject  rather  abruptly  to  the  fact  that  her 
name  was  in  the  new  edition  of  "  Who 's 
Who?  "  And,  while  she  ran  on  about  having 
her  portrait  painted  by  Willyer,  and  her  elec 
tion  to  a  woman's  fashionable  club,  Lester 
Hope  sat  thinking.  Why  was  he  so  perturbed  ? 
After  all,  was  n't  it  natural  enough  and  pardon 
able  enough  that  all  this  flattery  and  hero-wor 
ship  should  turn  her  head  a  little  ? 

But  every  day  he  grew  more  depressed.  So 
far,  he  had  felt  only  the  pin-pricks  to  his  pride ; 
but  now  a  steady  heart-ache  began  to  oppress 
him.  More  and  more  her  career  seemed  to  be 
alienating  them.  Undoubtedly  if  he  had 
spoken  of  it,  she  would  have  said  that  it  was 
only  his  fault.  If  he  would  stay  at  home 
nights,  or  work  late  at  the  office  instead  of 
accompanying  her,  how  could  she  help  it? 
Nevertheless,  he  noticed  that  she  urged  him  less 
and  less  to  go  with  her. 

There  were,  of  course,  dinners  she  gave  at 
home,  ordeals  which  he  had  perforce  to  at 
tend.  He  could  n't  always  have  "  business  in 
Boston,"  or  "  an  important  conference  in  Phil- 
25 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

adelphia."  At  his  own  table  he  roused  him 
self  with  an  effort  to  be  agreeable  to  the  Peev- 
ers  and  Woodlings,  to  joke  affably  with  writing 
persons,  from  the  latest  visiting  Briton  to 
story-tellers  of  the  Helen  Ramsay  type.  V/ith 
an  occasional  guest,  such  as  the  handsome  por 
trait  painter,  Willyer,  who,  thank  God,  did  n't 
scribble,  he  got  on  sympathetically ;  but  his  hos 
pitable  efforts  in  the  role  of  Mrs.  Hope's  Hus 
band  usually  exhausted  him.  The  minor 
celebrities  were  over-polite,  treating  him  as 
something  between  an  old  family  servant  and 
a  precocious  boy.  The  higher  stars  of  litera 
ture  drank  his  wines,  they  smoked  his  cigars, 
they  were  assiduous  to  his  pretty  wife.  But 
her  husband  they  jovially  ignored. 

Down  to  the  library,  one  evening,  came  Pau 
line  in  a  bewitching  new  gown  —  one  of  the 
extravagances  for  which  she  was  now  paying 
herself.  Never  had  he  seen  her  so  beautiful, 
he  thought,  as  when  she  walked  into  the  room 
and  threw  down  her  tulle  scarf.  What  a 
change  from  the  slender  lines  of  her  budding 
youth  to  this  regnant  lady  blooming  to-night  in 
26 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

perfect  flower!  His  wife?  It  seemed  impos 
sible! 

The  jewels  on  her  bare  throat  sparkled;  and 
as  she  critically  selected  her  orchids  under  the 
Winged  Victory,  Lester  Hope  saw  as  never 
before  what  success  had  done  for  her.  Let 
ting  his  pen  fall,  he  watched  her.  No,  ah,  no 
longer  was  she  Pauline  Forr,  the  na'ive,  roman 
tic,  talented  girl,  the  wayward  darling  he  had 
first  loved  and  molded.  Could  Pauline  Forr 
ever  have  handled  those  orchids  so  calmly? 
Pauline-of-the-violets !  Nor  was  she  any 
longer  that  young  Mrs.  Hope,  that  fresh,  subur 
ban  Mrs.  Hope,  so  proud  of  her  husband,  her 
home,  her  position.  Oh,  no;  young  Mrs. 
Hope,  before  this,  would  have  had  her  arms 
about  him,  petting  him,  teasing  him,  pulling 
that  obstinate  lock  of  hair —  God,  how  he 
remembered  —  so  whimsically  affectionate! 

The  orchids  were  arranged  in  her  corsage; 
the  orchids  were  rearranged.  There  was  a  re- 
connoitering  glance ;  then,  "  Could  n't  you  pos 
sibly  come  with  me,  dear,  this  time  ?  " 

He  stiffened,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  'd  particularly  like  you  to,  to-night,  Les- 
27 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

ter.  It 's  horrid  going  alone."  She  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  his  arm.  "Of  course  I  know 
it  may  bore  you,  but  — " 

God,  how  he  wanted  to  seize  that  hand, 
seize  her  as  he  used  to,  and  crush  her  in  his 
arms !  But  his  demon  of  pride  forbade.  In 
stead,  he  turned  to  his  papers  uneasily.  "  No," 
he  said,  dully,  "  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  've  got  some 
writing  to  do." 

There  was  a  moment's  wait;  then,  with  a 
toss  of  her  head,  her  expression  changed. 
Chin  up,  shoulders  back,  splendid  as  a  countess 
was  Pauline  Hope.  Oh,  there  was  no  chang 
ing  her  pose,  now ;  it  was  quite  evident  that  it 
would  last  all  the  evening  —  and  more  than 
one  would  ask,  admiringly,  "  Who  is  that  over 
there,  that  proud-looking  creature,  with  the 
dark  hair?" 

As  the  front  door  closed  on  her,  Lester  Hope 
rose  wearily.  To-night,  for  the  first  time  — 
yes,  for  the  very  first  time  —  he  really  wanted 
to  be  alone.  He  looked  about.  Good  God  — 
alone?  —  why,  the  whole  room  seemed  fairly 
filled  with  her  brilliant,  eclipsing  personality. 
Didn't  everything  in  it  suggest  her?  She 
dominated  him  still. 

28 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Out  went  an  electric  light,  and  her  writing 
desk  disappeared  into  the  gloom.  Shrouded  in 
that  shadow  too,  her  framed  photographs  of 
authors  and  "  presentation  copies  "  no  longer 
accused  him  of  his  own  conspicuous  lack  of 
fame.  He  turned  another  switch,  and  another, 
drowning  more  evidences  of  her  new,  public 
prosperity  —  those  rare  editions  she  was  so 
proud  of,  her  prints,  her  paintings,  and  all  that 
made  the  place  so  appallingly  literary  —  until 
at  last  he  was  safe  in  a  little  yellow  oasis  of 
light  at  his  own  desk.  Safe?  Ah,  still  in  the 
shadows  the  specter  lurked.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  me?  "  it  seemed  to  say.  "  I 
am  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband ! " 

And  yet  —  it  was  not  as  "  Mrs.  Hope's  Hus 
band  "  that  he  had  gone  so  brilliantly  through 
college;  it  was  not  "Mrs.  Hope's  Husband" 
who  had  won  with  dash  and  skill  on  the  polo 
field ;  and  when  men  talked  of  the  stars  of 
criminal  legal  practice  his  successes  had  never 
been  set  down  to  "  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband." 
Surely  there  was  some  personal  force  in  him. 
No,  what  people  had  said  was  that  Lester 
Hope  was  magnetic ;  that  he  was  a  good  fighter ; 
that  he  never  quit.  They  said  also  that  his 
29 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

force  was  heightened  by  his  picturesque  and 
distinguished  appearance,  for,  so  tall  and  dark, 
with  his  twisted  mustache  and  the  little  tuft 
on  his  chin,  with  his  long  sensitive  hands,  he 
looked  more  like  a  French  count  that  a  New 
York  lawyer.  Now,  alone  in  his  library  as  he 
paced,  absorbed,  he  showed  something  of  that 
old  vigor ;  but  well  he  knew  that,  once  Pauline 
had  returned  radiating  her  new  prestige,  that 
positive  personality  of  his  would  again  fade 
and  dwindle. 

The  dull  blue  portieres  were  parted,  A 
maid  looked  into  the  room. 

"  There  's  a  package  come  for  Mrs.  Hope, 
sir,"  she  said.  "  Could  you  sign  for  it  ?  The 
man 's  awful  particular  about  it,  but  he  said  if 
she  was  n't  in,  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband  would 
do."  She  left  without  noticing  the  cheeks  of 
the  self -controlled  man  who  had  handed  her 
back  the  receipt  book.  They  were  burning  as 
hotly  as  if  she  had  struck  him  in  the  face. 

As  he  opened  and  shut  the  drawers  of  his 
desk,  thinking  dispiritedly  that  he  must  go  to 
work,  he  paused,  staring  at  something  —  some 
thing  ragged,  worn,  soiled. 

He  drew  it  out.  What  queer,  stutteringly 
30 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

printed  words,  what  irregular  spacing  and  er 
ratic  margins.  Hyphens  and  capital  letters 
strewn  in  reckless  profusion,  words  crossed  out, 
words  written  in,  careted  and  blotted  —  well  he 
knew  those  pages!  Again  he  seemed  to  be 
talking  over  those  early  tales  of  hers  with  her, 
arguing  their  psychology,  elaborating  their  ro 
mantic  plots.  Why,  they  had  sat  up  talking 
them  over  excitedly,  night  after  night  to 
gether,  often  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning! 
Together !  —  where  was  that  "  togetherness," 
as  she  used  to  call  it,  now  ? 

He  laid  the  manuscript  gently  down  .  .  . 
Pauline  .  .  .  Pauline!  .  .  .  How  he  had 
worked  with  her!  Heart  and  brain,  how  he 
had  fought  for  her !  ...  He  could  n't  help  it, 
damn  it,  the  tears  would  come.  .  .  .  Once  he 
had  inspired  her  —  once  he  had  taught  her  — 
that  was  all  over.  For  a  while  his  education 
and  his  man's  experience  had  led  her,  but  her 
technique  had  soon  caught  up  with  her  creative 
talent.  Yes,  she  had  caught  up  with  him,  too, 
and  passed  him  on  the  road.  And  now,  appar 
ently,  she  needed  him  no  longer. 

Well,  even  if  he  had  lost  her,  or  was,  appar 
ently,  fast  losing  her,  did  n't  that  word  "  hus- 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

band  "  mean  at  least  that  he  had  won  her  once? 
Lost!  —  why  lost?  Hadn't  he  lost  cases  be 
fore,  in  the  lower  courts,  only  to  win  them  in 
the  end  doggedly  on  appeal?  Why,  then, 
should  n't  he  demand  a  retrial  in  this  case,  the 
greatest  case  of  his  life,  and  try  to  win  her  back 
again?  But  how?  His  mind  began  to  seek 
back  and  forth  furiously  on  the  scent,  as  it 
often  did  downtown  when  he  seemed  to  be 
beaten.  How?  How?  Was  a  second  ro 
mance  ever  possible  between  married  lovers? 
Was  it?  Was  it?  It  seemed  absurd,  yet  the 
thought  stimulated  him. 

How  ?  How  the  devil  —  how?  Gazing  at 
the  rows  and  rows  of  books  that  lined  the 
walls,  wandering,  wondering  through  "  if 
only  "  and  "  there  must  be  some  way !  "  his 
fancy  quested  until  —  he  had  no  idea  how  long 
he  had  been  sitting  there,  scowling,  chewing 
his  cigar  —  he  came  briskly  to  himself,  apos 
trophizing  the  shadowy  Winged  Victory  with 
the  savage  exclamation,  "  Why  not  ?  " 

Others  had  done  it ;  why  not  he  ?     Did  n't 

they  still  come  continually,  come  by  dozens 

sometimes,    those    confounded    letters,    those 

friendly  letters,  foolish  letters,   fulsome,  flat- 

32 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

tering,  from  unknown  correspondents?  How 
interestedly  they  had  both  read  them,  at  first, 
discussing  the  writers,  analyzing  the  characters 
they  revealed!  How  proud  she  still  was  of 
them,  too!  He  smiled  .  .  .  Pauline  at  her 
desk,  opening  her  letters  complacently,  sucking 
the  last  drop  of  praise  from  every  one.  .  .  . 

Yes,  and  she  would  read  his,  too.  Perhaps, 
though,  she  might  not  answer  it.  A  frown. 
But  why  not  compel  her  to  answer  it  ?  A  smile 
of  pride.  He  had  invention,  many  had  called 
him  clever ;  could  n't  he  play  on  her  curiosity, 
her  passion  for  romance?  After  all,  Pauline 
was  still  a  woman,  and  he  was  still  a  man. 
What  were  men's  wits  for,  anyway,  but  to  con 
quer  women  ?  And  his  wits  were  supposed  to 
be  trained  in  practical  psychology;  why  not 
prove  them  ?  And,  at  least,  one  sharp  weapon 
was  left  to  him ;  its  name  was  Mystery. 

By  the  Winged  Victory  of  Samothrace,  he  'd 
do  it !  At  that  moment  any  woman  would  say, 
and  most  men  think,  that  Lester  Hope  was 
handsome.  There  was  a  new  strength  in  the 
gesture  with  which  he  tossed  back  his  black 
hair.  Had  Pauline  come  in  upon  him  at  that 
moment  —  But  she  did  not  come  in. 
33 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Of  course  the  letter  would  have  to  be  type 
written  to  conceal  his  identity.  A  mere  detail 

—  that  of  course  could  be  done  next  day  at  the 
office.     Let 's  see  —  he  would  give  for  his  ad^ 
dress  a  new  post-office  box ;  and  he  would  sign 
it  —  what?     Long  he  studied  before  he  chose 

—  "John   Irons."     Long,    long  he   reflected, 
more  absorbed  than  ever  he  had  been  in  a  crim 
inal  case,  smoking  on,  smoking  on,  before  he 
had,  lawyer-wise,   decided  with  a  new  smile 
upon  Pauline's  vulnerable  point  and  where  the 
line  of  least  resistance  to  his  flattery  lay. 

And  so,  crossing  to  the  bookshelves  to  turn 
the  pages  of  her  novel  thoughtfully,  back  to  his 
desk  with  it,  lost  in  his  plan,  scribbling  fu 
riously  —  walking  the  floor  —  sitting  down, 
finally,  to  copy  all  carefully,  deliberately,  Les 
ter  Hope  did  not  realize,  till  at  midnight  he 
heard  the  front  door  opening,  that  for  two 
whole  hours  he  had  forgotten  that  he  was 
"  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband." 


34 


Ill 

IT  is  a  fact,  although  some  unmarried  women 
may  not  know  it,  that  trimming  a  mustache 
is  one  of  the  few  small  vanities  a  self-respect 
ing  man  permits  himself  to  practise  before  the 
mirror  consciously,  seriously,  and  unashamed. 
Lester  Hope,  with  puckered  brow,  was  trim 
ming  his  mustache.  A  knock  —  a  knock  at 
his  wife's  door.  Eight  thirty-five.  Ah,  her 
breakfast  —  and  her  mail !  Smiling,  but  a 
little  excited,  he  laid  down  his  scissors.  The 
new  trial  had  begun.  Anxiously  he  awaited 
Pauline's  opening  for  the  defense. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  her  gay 
soprano,  "Lester!  oh,  Lester!"  brought  him 
strolling  into  her  room,  to  find  her  ambushed 
in  laces  and  ribbons  in  her  four-poster,  propped 
up  luxuriously  amongst  the  pillows.  She  was 
drinking  her  chocolate.  Smiling  consciously, 
he  waited.  Many,  many  were  the  witnesses  he 
had  cross-examined,  and  well  he  knew  their 
35 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

carefully-careless  look.  But  this  time  that  look 
was  on  his  own  face. 

"  Say,  Lester,"  she  began,  "  remember  what 
fun  we  had  about  all  the  people  who  congratu 
lated  us  on  our  engagement?  Remember 
Quivin,  Les?  " 

"  Why,  yes.     Heard  from  Quivin  ?  " 

"  No.  But  just  think  of  his  saying  to  you, 
that  time,  '  Well,  I  hope  you  '11  get  along  well 
with  her ! '  But  that  showed  that  Quivin 
didn't  get  along  any  too  well  with  his  wife, 
didn't  it?  And  that  snippy  Nell  Tremlett, 
too!" 

"Oh,  heard  from  Nell?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  impatience. 
<c  Don't  you  know,  though,  Nell  said,  'Well, 
you  '11  find  it  very  different,  Pauline,  after 
you  're  married ! '  —  and  that  told  her  story. 
Why,  your  cousin  Ned  —  no,  I  have  n't  heard 
from  Ned,  Lester ;  don't  be  so  nervous !  —  he 
was  the  only  one,  apparently,  who  was  happily 
married.  '  Good  for  you,  Les,  it 's  the  only 
way  to  live ! '  —  remember  ?  " 

Watching  her  sharply,  he  nodded.  "  Yes, 
of  course ;  what  of  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  only  this :  each  one  of  them  was  un- 

36 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

consciously  expressing  his  subconscious  mind," 
said  Pauline,  decidedly.  "  According  to  mod 
ern  psychology  one's  dominant  traits  must  in 
evitably  come  out  in  one's  talk  or  one's  writ 
ing.  A  penurious  person  —  is  n't  he  always 
talking  about  money,  and  a  vain  person  of  peo 
ple's  looks?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear," — Lester  smiled  at  his  cig 
arette.  "  Also  the  earth  is  round,  and  slightly 
flattened  at — "  but  his  eyes  were  suddenly  at 
tracted  by  the  yellow  sheet  with  which  she  was 
now  gesticulating.  That  squarish,  yellow  sheet 
he  had  chosen  purposely  that  he  might  recog 
nize  it  at  a  glance. 

"  See  here,"  she  said,  "  I  'd  like  your  opinion 
of  this.  I  think  it 's  rather  clever,  myself. 
It 's  from  one  of  my  latest  admirers."  Bri 
dling,  she  turned  it  over  and  looked  at  the  sig 
nature.  "  '  John  Irons,'  whoever  he  is.  Lis 
ten  to  this,  though :  Tiny,  small,  delicate,  wee, 
darling,  diminutive,  little  —  and  so  on.  Look 
at  that  long  list  of  words,  will  you  ?  All  taken, 
if  you  please,  from  one  chapter  of  my  novel. 
See?  Friend  Irons  infers,  from  the  tendency 
shown  in  that  unconscious  way,  that  I  am  fond 
of  little  things  —  toys,  carvings,  and  minia- 
37 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

tures,  and  bibelots,  etc.  Well  —  that 's  all  true 
enough.  Why,  he  's  deduced  my  whole  won 
derful  exquisite  character,  in  fact,  from  my  vo 
cabulary." 

Now,  as  she  re-read  the  letter,  he  wondered, 
for  a  moment,  if  he  had  made  any  mistake  that 
might  have  betrayed  him.  She  was  chuckling. 

"  '  Dusky  gold ! '  "  she  laughed.  "  «  Dusky 
gold ! '  Yes,  I  remember  I  was  rather  pleased 
at  that.  Opalescent,  sheen,  velvety-bloom, 
smoky-red,  virginal,  gossamer,  floaty,  filmy,  di 
aphanous  —  look,  a  whole  procession  of  deco 
rative  words  like  that,  marching  right  down  the 
page.  See  ?  And  here  's  what  John  says  in 
conclusion.  Are  you  listening,  Lester  ?  '  An 
almost  pathetic  love  of  beauty;  you  must  have 
been  deprived  of  pretty  things  when  you  were 
young.'  That's  right,  too;  I  was,  wasn't  I? 
*  Disliking  discords  in  life  and  art.'  H'm! 
'  Fond  of  admiration.'  Well,  who  is  n't?  " 

Lester  walked  to  the  window  to  hide  his  face 
from  her.  "  What  an  ass !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Les,"  her  tone  now  was 
thoughtful.  "  '  Loyal,  while  seeming  to  for 
get.'  I  don't  see  where  he  got  that !  But  is  n't 
it  remarkable  ?  " 

38 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  Sounds  like  the  Baconian  cipher,  to  me, 
picking  out  words  to  fit,  like  that.  Why,  you 
could  prove  almost  anything,  that  way." 

"  But  he  happens  to  prove  just  exactly  the 
things  that  are  true.  Why,  he  might  have 
known  me  for  years !  Of  course,  he  's  rather 
complimentary,  too.  He  says  —  where  is 
that  ?  —  oh —  '  You  must  be  the  most  charm 
ing  woman  in  the  world.'  You  need  n't  shrug 
your  shoulders,  Lester;  perhaps  I  am.  But 
wait  a  minute ! "  and  she  continued  more 
slowly.  "  Hopes  he  '  may  develop  the  ac 
quaintance  by  some  more  direct  means.' ' 
Her  embarrassed  laugh  did  not  conceal  a  seri 
ous  interest.  "  What  d'  you  suppose  he  in 
tends  by  that?  Meet  him  around  the  corner, 
or  what  ?  Would  you  answer  him,  Les  ?  " 

Lester  yawned  artistically.  "  Oh,  if  you 
feel  like  it.  Lord,  /  don't  know !  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  either."  As  she  spoke, 
abstractedly  she  kept  folding  and  unfolding  the 
yellow  sheet.  "  I  think  sometimes  you  can 
really  tell  more  about  a  person  from  a  letter 
than  —  why,  Lester,  if  I  wanted  to  get  a  line 
on  you  d'  you  know  what  I  'd  do?  I  'd  just 
go  away,  visit  mother  or  something,  and  make 
39 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

you  write  to  me.  I  really  believe  I  'd  find  out 
more  about  you  than  by  living  with  you  for  six 
months !  " 

And,  though  she  drifted  off  in  a  description 
of  last  night's  reception,  her  husband  suspected, 
beneath  her  gossip  of  Mrs.  Poppity's  latest 
blunder,  and  how  Smithers  wished  to  dedicate 
his  book  of  poems  "  To  P.  H.,"  a  strong  under 
current  of  John  Irons  in  her  mind,  which  she 
seemed  to  be  taking  some  pains  to  conceal. 
That  forenoon  Lester  Hope  walked  downtown 
to  his  office  not  a  little  elated. 

For  three  afternoons,  each  day  a  little  less 
elated,  he  walked  downtown  only  to  be  disap 
pointed.  But  on  the  fourth  day  when  he 
stopped  at  the  post  office  and  looked  in  as 
usual  through  the  little  glass  door,  behold,  a 
pale  blue  envelope!  It  was  addressed  to 
"John  Irons,  Esq.,  P.  O.  Box  1711" — in 
Pauline's  handwriting,  bold  and  rapid. 

Gingerly  he  took  it  out,  feeling  somewhat  as 
if  he  were  robbing  the  mails,  and  tore  open  the 
blue  envelope.  The  sensation  was,  he  thought, 
a  bit  too  like  eavesdropping  on  Pauline  to  be 
comfortable.  Of  course  it  was  for  him,  that 
40 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

letter ;  but  at  the  same  time  it  was  n't  exactly 
for  her  husband,  was  it? 

Well,  never  mind ;  at  a  shelf -desk  by  the  big, 
dirty  window,  hustled  by  the  crowd,  he  found 
himself  reading: 

"  My  dear  Mr.  John  Irons: 

"  I  'm  so  glad  to  have  found  at  least  one 
careful  student  of  my  book.  Really,  you 
quite  remind  one  of  those  patient,  laborious 
old  prisoners  in  medieval  dungeons  who  spent 
their  days  counting  the  number  of  '  the's '  and 
'  and's '  in  the  Bible.  It  was  almost  a  pity, 
though,  for  you  to  have  wasted  so  much  time 
on  my  novel  that  might  have  been  spent, 
might  n't  it  ?  at  a  dollar  a  palm,  with  the  gyp 


sies." 


Pauline  went  on  in  an  almost  gleeful  strain 
to  fear  that  she  wasn't  half  so  nice  as  John 
Irons  had  made  out,  and  that,  really,  if  she 
were  honest  (which,  of  course,  she  was  n't),  she 
ought  to  insert  a  lot  of  brittle,  magenta,  sharp- 
pointed  words  into  her  next  novel,  just  to  make 
his  pet  theories  consistent.  In  conclusion,  (the 
note  was  short),  she  wondered  Who  he  was. 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

There  was  altogether  a  dancing  note  of  cor 
diality  and  frankness  in  it  that  rather  surprised 
him ;  and  a  little  something  about  it  also  that  he 
—  did  n't  —  quite  —  like.  Just  why,  he  found 
it  hard  to  decide.  What,  then,  had  he  antici 
pated?  Wasn't  it  in  just  this  way,  inducing 
just  this  charmingly  amenable  mood,  that  he 
had  expected  to  rewin  her  love?  All  he  knew 
was  that  some  Imp  of  the  Perverse  had  touched 
him  with  a  faint  regret  that  he  had  succeeded 
so  well.  Did  n't  she,  he  thought,  come  almost 
too  easily?  The  sudden  revelation  of  her  as 
she  appeared  secretly  with  a  stranger  was  al 
most  uncomfortable,  even  though  that  stran 
ger  were  himself. 

At  the  office,  he  found,  after  some  search, 
the  last  letter  he  had  received  from  his  wife, 
when,  two  months  ago,  she  had  gone  to  visit 
her  mother.  It  told  of  the  weather,  it  told  of 
the  theaters,  it  told  of  the  state  of  her  health. 
Quite  a  contrast,  it  seemed  to  him,  her  letter 
to  "  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband  "  and  that  flirta 
tious  note  to  John  Irons  —  but  the  thought  he 
shook  off.  After  all,  since  he  was  John  Irons, 
why  not  rejoice  with  John?  This  was  the 
only  way  he  knew  to  win  her,  and  win  her 
42 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

he  must!  On  with  the  masquerade!  Jump 
ing  again  into  his  new  mental  costume,  he  sat 
down  to  write  his  reply. 

"  So  you  wonder  who  I  am  ?  You  will 
never,  never  suspect  me."  He  stopped  and 
gazed  at  his  typewriter.  Then  the  keys 
snapped  savagely.  "  I  am  far  too  unimpor 
tant,  and  I  am  too  proud  to  confess  my  name. 
I  am  not  in  your  set,  nor  even  in  the  brilliant 
circle  of  your  acquaintance.  We  have  met,  it 
is  true;  but  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
you  have  forgotten  me.  But,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Hope,  though  I  have  only  just  summoned 
courage  to  write  to  you,  I  have  long,  long  ad 
mired  you.  And  yet,  bright  a  star  as  I  see 
you,  don't  think  me  dazzled  or  afraid.  I 
know  your  faults  as  well  as  your  virtues. 
You  have  no  greater  friend,  or  severer  critic 
—  and  remember  that  I  am  watching  you  all 
the  time,  in  the  dark!" 

He  continued  in  as  spirited  and  daring  a 
vein  as  he  thought  he  might  without  fright 
ening  her  away.  Experience  had  taught  him 
that  when  a  woman  is  to  be  won  she  must  be 
won  quickly,  while  the  game  is  new  and  ex 
citing. 

43 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

That  night  they  had  pork  chops  for  dinner. 
Pauline  asked  if  the  coal  had  been  ordered 
and  the  milk  bill  paid.  She  spent  most  of  the 
evening  in  deciding  which  photograph,  from 
a  set  of  proofs,  would  be  most  effective  in  ad 
vertising  a  holiday  edition  of  her  novel. 

Her  next  letter,  because  of  two  sly  little 
words,  amused  him.  "  Are  n't  you  forcing 
this  a  little?"  came  her  mild  protest.  "  As  a 
reader  of  character  I  admit  you  are  rather 
good,  though  I  fear  superficial.  I  have  an 
idea,  however,  that  I  might  perhaps  do  as  well 
myself;  but  I  haven't  enough  data,  as  yet,  in 
your  vocabulary  to  be  able  to  deduce  your 
character,  and  decide  whether  or  not  I  care  to 
continue  the  correspondence." 

"  As  yet."  Business  forgotten,  the  tele 
phone  unanswered,  in  his  office  he  thought 
fully  rubbed  his  chin  and  smiled  at  those  two 
words ;  then  frowned.  "  I  have  n't  enough 
data,  as  yet!"  Why,  couched  though  it  was, 
woman- fashion,  in  the  guise  of  a  rebuke, 
was  n't  it  virtually  an  invitation  to  continue  ? 
Yes,  she  was  distinctly  encouraging.  The 
battle  was  on. 

And,  daily,  as  it  raged,  for  they  now  wrote 
44 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

daily,  there  was  at  home,  apparently,  never 
anything  more  between  them  than  a  dinner 
table  or  the  upstairs  hall!  Friends,  partners, 
mates,  roast  beef  and  the  "  Evening  Tribune  " 
—  plus  invisible,  clandestine  romance!  With 
every  surreptitious  glance  he  stole  at  her  as 
she  read,  or  wrote,  or  sang,  he  wondered  what 
name  to  give  to  the  domestic  drama  —  Com 
edy  or  Tragedy  ? 

Never  before,  possibly,  had  his  office  type 
writing  machine  transcribed  such  jaunty  mes 
sages  as  during  these  weeks  when,  evening 
after  evening,  he  lighted  the  electric  lamp  and 
sat  down  alone  to  write  to  Pauline.  Those 
stiff  old  wires  and  springs,  habituated  to 
"  Yours  of  the  i8th  at  hand,"  and  "  the  party 
of  the  first  part,"  must  have  felt  an  unaccus 
tomed  thrill  as  they  jumped  and  rattled  to  the 
elastic  words :  "  //  /  could  be  near  you,  and 
see  you  and  hear  you,  I  'd  probably  fear  you 
too  much  to  confess  what  now  I  'm  Implying, 
(at  least  I  am  trying),  and  also  relying  on 
you,  too,  to  guess!" 

So  shrewdly,  he  eschewed  the  sentimental 
note.  At  lovers'  fond  perjuries  they  say  Jove 
laughs;  but  Minerva,  yes,  and  all  Olympus, 
45 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

will  abet  a  courtship  where  grace  and  humor 
woo. 

Hard  work  enough  it  was,  too,  with  his 
wife  drifting,  drifting  away,  to  force  himself 
to  the  blithe  pristine  note  of  his  early  sweet- 
hearting;  but  he  succeeded.  He  was  sure  of 
that  when  she  responded  a  little  more  promptly 
than  before,  and  quite  in  his  own  vein.  How 
long,  oh,  how  long  it  had  been  since  his  wife 
had  written  verses  to  him ! 

So  nibble,  nibble,  nibble  —  and  his  fish 
was  almost  on  the  hook.  His  romantic  bait 
had  been  just  the  thing  for  her  fancy.  At 
home,  Pauline  had  casually  mentioned  the 
John  Irons  letters  occasionally  as  they  came, 
with  a  touch  of  amusement. 

"Want  to  see  it,  Lester?"  she  would  say, 
carelessly,  as  she  skirmished  through  the  maga 
zines  for  a  February  number,  containing  her 
picture. 

He  displayed  only  the  lukewarm  interest  of  c* 
sleepy  spouse.  "  Oh,  I  guess  not  now,  thanks  ,• 
I  'd  like  to  finish  this  story  I  'm  reading." 

Show  him  her  letters,  would  she?  It  was 
a  harmless  Platonic  game,  then  —  a  family 
46 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

affair!  He  had  no  idea  of  carrying  on  a  mere 
practical  joke;  his  object  was  serious;  to  re- 
win  her  love,  no  less.  So  now  if  he  were  to 
land  her,  so  to  speak,  it  was  time  for  a  quick 
jerk  to  the  line.  He  decided  to  try  to  write 
her  so  warm,  so  private  a  letter  that,  though 
she  would  accept  it  from  an  unknown  admirer, 
she  would  not  quite  care  or  even  dare  to  show 
it  to  her  husband. 

For  this,  a  new  touch  of  romance.  And  if 
there  are  still  those  who  think  a  typewritten 
letter  cannot  breathe  romance,  they  should 
have  watched  Pauline  Hope  (as,  through  her 
half-opened  door,  Lester  himself,  one  morn 
ing,  shamelessly  watched  her),  studying  his 
ardent  lines. 

"  Always  I  shall  think  of  you  as  once  I  saw 
you,  in  golden  silk  and  pearls,"  he  had  writ 
ten.  "  You  were  surrounded  by  admirers, 
and  I  could  not,  would  not,  force  myself  on 
your  notice;  though  I  watched  you  all  the 
evening!  But  to-day  I  saw  you  almost  more 
radiant  on  the  street  —  with  your  husband. 
Yes,  and  I  was,  for  a  moment,  very  near  you 
—  I  might  have  touched  your  hand !  And  I 
49 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

knew,  then,  that  I  loved  you!  You  wore  no 
flowers,  I  am  sure,  and  yet  when  you  passed, 
I  swear  I  breathed  violets ! " 

Ah,  love  unadorned  is  common  enough  — 
but  robed  in  mystery  —  mystery  and  mischief ! 
Little  wonder  the  situation  caught  her  novel 
ist's  fancy.  Yet,  pause  a  moment,  and  ob 
serve  the  piquant  picture ;  for,  tapping  away  at 
the  prosaic  keys  of  his  typewriter,  it  never 
occurred  to  Lester  Hope  to  wonder  which, 
after  all,  was  the  more  romantic  figure  —  his 
picturesque  John  Irons  of  fiction,  following 
her  dramatically  in  secret,  or  Mrs.  Hope's 
Husband  of  fact,  in  blue  worsted,  in  shirt 
sleeves  and  green  eye-shade,  alone  in  his  office 
after  his  clerks  had  gone,  only  the  one  desk 
lamp  lighted,  trying  mercilessly  to  divide  him 
self  in  twain  and  pit  one  against  the  other  in 
the  fight  for  Pauline. 

It  was  the  pile  of  unopened  letters  that  lay 
on  her  flowery- fragrant  breakfast  table  next 
morning  that  gave  him  his  real  result ;  amongst 
them  he  spied  no  square  yellow  envelope.  Yet 
a  square  yellow  envelope  certainly  had  been  on 
the  tray  when  the  mail  was  brought  up  to  her 
50 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

—  he  had  assured  himself  of  that  when  the 
maid  passed  him  on  the  stairs. 

Pauline  rose,  and  Pauline  dressed.  Down 
the  curly  staircase,  clad  all  in  white,  she  came 
a-singing.  A  joyous  kiss  she  threw  —  at 
Willyer's  portrait  of  herself  in  the  library. 
She  scolded  the  dog,  petted  the  cat,  ordered 
veal  cutlets  for  luncheon,  talking  gaily  all  the 
time. 

The  creaming  and  sugaring  of  her  oatmeal, 
however,  seemed  to  require  more  concentra 
tion.  In  silence,  she  took  a  few  dainty  spoon 
fuls.  Then,  thoughtfully:  "Lester,  d'  you 
recall  when  I  wore  that  yellow  silk  even 
ing  gown  of  mine  last?  At  the  Woodlings', 
was  n't  it  ?  You  were  there,  that  night,  at 
that  first  reception  she  gave  for  me,  were  n't 
you?" 

"Why,  yes—"  he  said;  "what  about  it?" 

"  Oh,  nothing."  She  looked  up,  caught  his 
eye,  suddenly  looked  down  again.  "  I  was 
just  wondering  if  —  if  I'd  dare  to  wear  it 
there  again,  that 's  all."  A  pause.  "  Say, 
Lester;  d'  you  remember  who  was  there,  that 
night?  Now,  don't  be  sarcastic  —  I  mean, 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

was  there  any  one  there  —  well,  that  we  knew, 
but  had  n't  seen  for  a  long  time,  for  instance  ? 
Nobody  of  any  importance  of  course.  Al 
most  a  stranger,  you  might  say  ?  " 

He  appeared  not  to  notice  any  hidden  mo 
tive  in  her  query,  and  with  the  stupidity  of  a 
doting,  unsuspicious  husband,  he  answered 
only,  "No.  Why?" 

"Oh,  I  was  only  trying  to  think  of  —  of 
whom  to  invite  to  .  .  ."  Pauline  dwindled 
off,  and  for  a  time  there  was  no  sound  but  the 
delicate  click  of  her  spoon  against  the  plate, 
and  the  rustling  of  his  newspaper. 

"  Say,  Les ;  you  know  when  we  were  walk 
ing  downtown  yesterday  morning  ?  You  don't 
recall  seeing  any  one  particular,  do  you?  — 
any  one  you  knew  ?  " 

"  Nobody  —  but  the  postman." 

"  That 's  funny/'  Pauline  murmured. 

Yes,  it  was  rather  funny,  he  thought;  but 
he  did  n't  say  so. 

Over  the  top  of  his  newspaper  he  watched 
guardedly  as  she  tasted  her  porridge,  waiting 
for  her  to  mention  John  Irons.  Never  a  word 
more  did  Pauline  say. 

But,  when  it  came  to  it,  why  should  she? 
52 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Happy  as  their  married  life  had  been,  it  was 
not  established  upon  the  theory  of  a  private 
ownership  of  one  by  the  other.  They  were 
both  tacitly  free  to  give  or  withhold  their  con 
fidence.  But  one  significant  thing  he  did  no 
tice  —  that  Pauline's  farewell  kiss  was  just 
a  bit  more  clinging  than  usual.  Was  n't  her 
conscience  troubling  her  a  little  ?  he  wondered. 
And  by  just  that  extra  amount  of  fervor 
in  the  demonstration,  he  suspected,  Lester 
Hope  had  fallen,  and  John  Irons  had  risen,  in 
the  scales  of  her  affection. 


53 


IV 

IN  the  weeks  that  followed,  Lester's  tete-a 
tetes  with  his  wife  grew  ever  rarer.  To 
find  a  bevy  of  celebrities  gossiping  over  Pau 
line's  teacups  when  he  came  home  was  quite 
what  he  had  to  expect,  nowadays ;  or  else,  per 
haps,  it  would  be  old  Peever  ensconced  with 
her  in  the  library.  Manuscripts  and  maga 
zines,  royalties,  reviews  —  how  sick  Lester 
had  grown  of  them !  But  when,  by  happy  ac 
cident,  he  and  Pauline  did  have  dinner  alone 
together,  without  literary  ladies-with-three- 
names  or  blatant  he-talkers,  Lester  was  often 
tempted  to  hazard  the  careless  question : 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Pauline,  ever  heard  any 
thing  more  from  that  Irons  chap  ?  " 

But,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  scrutin 
izing  her  thoughtfully,  he  would  always  won 
der:  What  if  Pauline  should  deny  it?  No, 
he  feared  to  put  her  to  the  test.  He,  the  hus 
band,  was  still  jealous  of  himself,  the  lover. 

Still,  she  was  friendly  enough,  too.  She 
54 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

was  always  considerate;  outwardly,  at  least, 
she  was  affectionate.  But  somehow  his  wife 
—  well,  she  seemed  to  be  growing  every  day 
more  like  the  fine  portrait  Willyer  had  painted 
of  her  —  that  handsome,  that  inscrutable,  aris 
tocrat  in  black  velvet.  And  often,  as  he 
looked  up  at  her,  she  seemed  to  smile  ambigu 
ously  down  at  him  from  the  library  wall  as  if 
saying,  "  Well,  I  too  have  my  secret."  Her 
soul  was  fading  from  his  ken. 

The  Lady  of  the  Letters,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  becoming  ever  more  sharply  defined. 
Nothing  gives  a  woman  a  new  lease  of  life  like 
the  discovery  of  an  unsuspected  Romeo,  and 
the  avowal  of  John  Irons's  love  had  lifted  her 
spirits  like  wine.  She  was  no  longer  merely 
Pauline;  she  was  quite  a  new  person,  with  all 
the  charm  of  newness.  But  did  n't  she  have 
also,  thrilling  him  often,  a  charm  that  was  old, 
familiar  —  long  lost?  Why,  at  times,  in  the 
exuberance  of  her  letters  she  was  almost  Pau- 
line-of-the-Violets ! 

Weaving  in  and  out  through  the  dreary 
technicalities  of  his  business  affairs,  day  after 
day,  her  friendly  nonsense  would  dance 
through  his  head : 

55 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  At  a  mystery  you  really  are  an  artist, 
And  your  charming  incognito  is  a  game 

That  you  handle  with  the  grace  of  a  Delsartist; 
But  I'  think  you  're  quite  too  speedy,  all  the  same ! 

"  So  the  kiss  that  you  beseech  of  me  to  post  you 
I  refuse;  for  you  must  surely  understand 

That  a  lady  does  n't  give  a  kiss,  you  ghost,  you, 
Till  the  gentleman  at  least  has  held  her  hand ! " 

Oh,  it  was  easy  enough,  now,  to  sit  down 
and  begin,  "  My  dear  Pauline  " ;  easy  enough 
to  jest  with  her  on  paper,  easy  enough  to  pique 
her  curiosity  and  keep  the  romance  at  the  bub 
bling  point.  "  Yesterday,  I  saw  you  and  fol 
lowed  you  for  blocks.  At  first,  I  could  have 
killed  every  man  who  turned  to  look  at  you; 
afterwards  I  could  have  killed  every  man  who 
did  not.  I  wonder  if  you  are  as  proud  as  you 
ought  to  be  of  that  free  graceful  gait  of 
yours?"  Easy  enough  it  was,  in  the  neutral 
environment  of  his  downtown  office,  alone, 
quiet,  to  forget  for  the  nonce  that  he  was 
"  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband."  .  .  . 

What  was  hard  was  when  he  was  at  home 
with  her;  when  he  was  watching  her  intently 
—  watching  Pauline  the  wife,  that  is  —  and 
56 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

trying  to  discover  in  her  Pauline  the  sweet 
heart. 

"  Why,  Lester,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?"  she  would  exclaim,  sometimes,  glanc 
ing  up  from  her  book.  "  You  've  been  look 
ing  at  me  so  queerly !  What  are  you  thinking 
of?  I  should  think  I  were  a  total  stranger!  " 
And  Pauline  would  laugh  in  A-sharp  and  Les 
ter  in  D-flat,  which,  in  domestic  music, 
whether  classic  or  modern,  is  a  discord. 

Harder  still  it  was  when  Helen  Ramsay 
called,  and  was  coquettish. 

"  Are  n't  you  looking  rather  fagged,  Les- 
.ter?  You're  not  leading  a  double  life,  are 
you?  "  A  wink  at  Pauline.  "  You  can't  tell 
much  about  Lester,  you  know;  he  was  rather 
romantic,  I  found,  when  he  was  at  college." 

Hardest  of  all  on  his  pride  were  the  times 
when  his  wife,  smoothly  reluctant,  explained 
that  Peever  was  going  to  bring  that  English 
author  to-night,  you  know,  and  she  supposed 
they  'd  just  talk  books  and  books  and,  "Of 
course  I  'd  love  to  have  you,  Les,  but  still,  if 
you  think  you'll  be  bored — "  She  might  as 
well  have  given  him  a  stick  of  candy,  and  told 
him  to  go  off  and  play  by  himself ! 
57 


X 

MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

And,  meanwhile  —  "  How  do  you  dare,  you 
devil !  "  she  was  writing  to  John  Irons.  "  You 
know  that  I  am  married.  Well,  how  do  I 
dare?  I  don't  know  whether  you  are,  or  not; 
but,,  (is  n't  it  awful!)  I  don't  much  care  —  as 
yet.  I  have  to  confess  that  you,  my  charming 
serpent,  have  quite  fascinated  poor  timid  bird 
Me.  There 's  something  about  you,  plague 
take  you,  that  makes  me  quite  willing  to  trust 
you  recklessly.  I  am  even  willing  to  run  the 
risk  of  your  thinking  me  (I'm  not)  bold  or 
credulous.  Oh,  J.  L,  I  have  simply  searched 
my  soul  for  phrases  to  explain  why,  somehow, 
I  don't  and  simply  can't  feel  guilty.  I  am  re 
duced,  actually,  to  the  coy  school-girl  confes 
sion,  '  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  always  ' !  " 

And  then  —  to  come  home,  hungry  for  one 
look  of  that  affectionate  abandon  in  her  eyes 
—  to  find  her,  so  beautiful,  so  cool  —  oh,  God, 
so  suave  —  with  her  drawing-room  full  of 
Polish  artists,  varnished  mondaines,  hungry- 
looking  poets,  and  be  affably  patronized  as 
"Mrs.  Hope's  Husband!" 

And  so,  Lester  Hope  having  thus  been  in 
troduced  to  the  torture  chamber,  let  him  be 
58 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

delicately  tormented  further  to  determine  if 
he  be  domitable;  or,  if  not,  what  lyric  may  be 
wrung  from  his  distress. 

Lying  on  the  big  leather  couch  in  the  library 
alone  one  night  (and  that  is  where  Willyer 
should  have  painted  him,  a  long,  graceful  fig 
ure,  with  a  darkly  picturesque  head  —  how  he 
would  have  made  those  Irish-blue  eyes  twinkle 
under  the  black  lashes!)  Lester  Hope  was 
wondering  —  wondering  if,  after  all,  he  could 
ever  bear  it  to  win  Pauline  anew  in  this 
strange,  unsatisfactory  fashion.  Was  n't  it 
even  dishonorable;  a  sneaky  trick  on  her,  of 
which  he  should  be  ashamed  ?  What  would  it 
prove,  anyway,  to  make  her  fall  in  love  with 
an  unknown  ? 

Suddenly  there  came  a  sickening  thought. 
What  if  it  weren't  an  unknown?  What  if 
she  did  know,  or  thought  she  did,  who  John 
Irons  was?  Scraps  of  a  month-old  conversa 
tion  had  come  back  to  him. 

"  Lester,  you  remember  Paul  Smithers, 
don't  you  ? "  P'auline's  question  had  been 
off-hand,  as  she  was  adjusting  her  hat  before 
the  mirror. 

59 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Oh,  yes,  Lester  knew;  Smithers  was  that 
poet-person  —  he  of  the  black  beribboned  eye 
glasses  and  the  little  black  chopped  mus 
tache. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  had  asked,  carelessly  —  this 
was  after  J.  I.'s  first  really  daring  missive  — 
"  do  you  think  he  is  really  clever,  Lester?  " 

Lester,  quite  profanely,  did  not. 

But,  now  he  thought  of  it,  had  n't  he  come 
home  from  the  office  early  several  times,  lately, 
to  find  Smithers's  silly  black  ribbons  dangling 
over  the  teacups,  and  Pauline  gazing  a  bit  in 
terestedly  into  those  owlish,  tortoise-shell  eye 
glasses?  When  was  it  she  had  asked  about 
him  ?  Was  n't  it  —  yes,  it  must  have  been 
just  after  the  day  J.  I.  had  written  that  letter 
about  seeing  her.  By  Jove,  the  poet  had  been 
"  quite  near  enough  to  touch  her  hand !  " 

Lester  groaned.  What  a  fool  he  had  been 
to  mention  that  in  his  letter !  Why,  had  n't  he 
kept  his  John  Irons  invisible,  detached,  an  in 
soluble  mystery,  instead  of  setting  Pauline's 
romantic  imagination  to  work  trying  to  iden 
tify  him  amongst  her  acquaintances!  Good 
God!  Could  it  be  that,  writing  his  aching 
heart  into  those  letters,  he  had  been  merely 
60 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

playing  into  that  pale  poet's  languid,  effemin 
ate  hands? 

Whereat,  the  preliminary  pleasantries  with 
the  thumbscrews  having  been  finished,  his  tor 
turing  fate  now  smilingly  took  up  the  red-hot 
pincers. 

That  week  Smithers  came  to  dinner. 
Smithers  was  elegant  at  dinner,  with  a  pat 
ronizing,  Harvard  drawl,  with  all  the  airs  of 
a  genius,  and  a  cigarette-holder  seven  inches 
long.  A  separate  affront  was  in  every  gog 
gled  glance  he  gave  Pauline,  and  every  smile 
she  sent  him  in  return  made  Lester  a  little 
faint.  Continually  he  kept  saying  to  himself: 
"  Well,  at  least  Smithers  can  know  absolutely 
nothing  of  the  letters  ";  but  it  was  small  satis 
faction,  for,  if  Pauline  really  believed  Smith 
ers  to  be  John  Irons,  her  unconscious  thought 
would  instinctively  encourage  him.  And  Les 
ter  Hope,  knowing  him  well,  had  seen  at  a  first 
glance  that  small-eyed  Smithers  was  scarcely- 
one  to  be  trusted  with  a  complaisant  woman. 

And,  so  suffering,  as  he  told  his  legal  anec 
dotes,  gallantly  rallying  Helen  Ramsay  as  a 
beauty  and  blarneying  enthusiastic,  spluttery 
61 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Mrs.  Woodling  as  he  might  a  girl,  laughing 
even  at  old  Peever's  monumental  attempts  at 
the  jocose,  Lester  Hope  never  once  lost  sight 
of  Smithers  —  talkative  Smithers  in  his  poet 
ical  black  silk  stock  and  soft,  many-plaited, 
white  silk  shirt. 

Was  n't  he  a  very  cat-like,  a  very  stealthy 
black-and-white  creature  whom  it  might  be  un 
pleasant  to  arouse?  thought  Lester,  watching 
him,  disgusted.  Think  of  his  wife  playing 
with  such  an  animal  —  it  was  horrible ! 

Now,  Pauline  had  other  admirers  in  her 
newly  discovered  intellectual  world.  They 
called,  they  dined,  they  danced.  They  sent 
their  little  books  with  the  fly-leaves  elabo 
rately  inscribed,  they  presented  her  with  little 
bas-reliefs  and  statuettes,  with  little  colored 
daubs  signed  prominently  "A  mon  amie." 
Smithers  was  but  a  sample  of  many  who  were 
beginning  to  flutter  about  her  bright  person 
ality.  But  Smithers,  as  the  most  persistent 
and  obnoxious  of  them  all,  Smithers  the  soft, 
Smithers  the  sticky,  had  become  Lester's  ob 
session.  How  could  Pauline  possibly  endure 
him,  he  wondered  bitterly.  "  I  must  get  rid 
of  Smithers!" 

62 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

But,  as  things  turned  out,  it  was  not  Lester 
who  got  rid  of  him,  after  all;  it  was  Pauline. 
Or,  rather,  Smithers  rid  them  both  of  himself 
by  a  characteristic  form  of  social  suicide. 

• "  I  don't  think  I  shall  see  much  more  of 
Smithers,"  said  Pauline,  one  night,  after  com 
ing  home  alone  and  cool-eyed  from  a  reception 
to  which  the  poet  had  escorted  her.  Smith 
ers,  it  appeared  from  her  subsequent  reluctant 
confession,  was  not  a  gentleman  and  had  not 
apparently  considered  her  a  lady.  Smithers, 
in  short  had,  in  the  cab  —  "  Well,  don't 
worry,  Lester;  you  know  you  can  always  trust 
me  to  take  care  of  myself  and  any  possible  im 
pertinence." 

White-hot  with  indignation  though  he  was 
(and  not  without  unpleasant  suspicions  that 
perhaps  Pauline  had  quite  unconsciously  en 
couraged  the  beast),  the  elimination  of  Smith 
ers  certainly  brought  Lester  a  relief.  Pauline 
now  knew,  of  course,  that  Smithers  was  not 
the  author  of  the  John  Irons  letters;  his  vul 
garity  was  incompatible  with  the  romance  as 
it  had  been  played.  Lester  had  a  quick  bound 
of  spirits. 

With  that  recrudescence  of  his  first  fresh 

63 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

impulse  he  saw  plainly  now  that  it  was  not 
enough  to  get  rid  of  Smithers;  he  must,  so  to 
speak,  get  rid  of  himself.  Compunction  for 
the  husband  was  retarding  the  lover.  No 
more  regrets,  then;  no  more  reproaches;  Les 
ter  Hope  must  be  tossed  bodily  overboard  to 
save  John  Irons. 

The  poor  husband  did  not  quite  drown, 
however,  until  one  day  Lester  came  home  to 
find,  as  he  had  often  found  of  late,  a  vase  of 
roses  on  the  library  table.  At  sight  of  the 
flowers  he,  as  John  Irons,  had  sent,  he  had, 
heretofore,  always  had  an  uneasy  feeling  of 
having  robbed  Peter  to  pay  Paul.  Not  so  to 
day.  Always  before  he  had  gingerly  avoided 
the  subject,  trying  to  let  Pauline  off  from  any 
definite  explanation. 

But  to-day  he  looked  her  in  the  face  and 
asked  outright :  "  Say,  where  the  devil  did 
this  carnival  of  roses  come  from  anyway  ? " 

Instead  of  the  hoodwinked  husband's  cus 
tomary  twinge  of  pain  at  her  feminine  evasion, 
he  smiled  indulgently  at  her  embarrassed,  "  Oh, 
I  got  them  this  morning;  are  n't  they  pretty!  " 
He  felt  only  the  lover's  joy  at  getting  ahead  of 
a  rival.  Was  n't  that  card  with  the  "  J.  I."  al- 
64 


'Where  did  this  carnival  of  roses  come    from?' 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

ways  missing?     Pauline  was  already   feeling 
guilty.     What  could  be  more  encouraging? 

But  his  respite  was  short;  only  just  long 
enough  to  restore  the  victim  sufficiently  for 
him  to  feel  the  full  force  of  his  next  keen 
agony.  Fate  had  by  no  means  exhausted  the 
torturing  possibilities  of  the  situation;  and 
fate,  in  grim  earnest,  now,  laid  him  upon  the 
rack  for  the  peine  forte  ct  dure. 

For,  if  you  mingle  contempt  with  jealousy, 
the  pain  is  fairly  easy  to  endure.  One's  na 
tive  feeling  of  superiority  soon  heals  the  smart. 
Another  week  of  Smithers  and  who  knows 
how  Lester's  scorn  of  Pauline's  taste  might 
have  affected  his  love  for  her?  But,  poison 
the  wound  with  admiration,  and  jealousy  has 
a  deeper,  deadlier  sting.  No  man  is  so  fiercely 
jealous  as  he  who  suspects  his  best  friend. 

It  was  while  he  was  shaving,  one  morning, 
shaving  quite  happily,  listening  to  Pauline's 
voice  gaily  trilling  in  her  room,  that  the 
thought  struck  him.  Suddenly  he  put  down 
his  razor  and  watched  a  small  spot  of  red  on 
his  chin  grow  larger  and  larger. 
67 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

No,  he  had  not  wounded  himself,  he  knew. 
That  blood  was  really  drawn  by  Norman  Will- 
yer.  .  .  .  Merry  as  a  canary,  Pauline  sang  on. 
.  .  .  Lester  cleaned  his  razor  and  rubbed  an 
alum  stick  on  his  cut ;  but  still  it  bled  and  bled. 
.  .  .  And,  like  a  spiritual  wound,  his  sudden 
jealousy  bled  and  bled.  .  .  . 

Had  n't  Pauline  been  a  good  deal  with  Will- 
yer  of  late?  And  those  long  sittings  in  his 
studio  when  she  had  posed  for  her  portrait  — 
what  had  happened?  Little  pictures  of  the 
two  came  back  to  his  mind.  Was  n't  she  al 
ways  watching  him,  studying  him  ?  Was  n't 
she  always  saying  how  clever  he  was,  and  how 
sensitive  ?  Was  n't  she,  in  short,  suspecting 
Willyer  of  being  John  Irons? 

Probably  every  man,  if  he  would  but  con 
fess  it,  admires  some  particular  type  and  rec 
ognizes  it,  when  it  appears,  as  the  sort  of  per 
son  he  would  secretly  like  to  be.  For  Lester 
Hope,  Willyer  personified  that  ideal.  The 
best  testimony  to  the  strength  and  elegance  of 
the  big  blond  artist  with  the  pointed  beard  was 
that  even  women's  opinion  that  he  was 
"  charming  "  could  n't  damn  him  in  the  eyes 
of  men;  no  such  praise  can  hurt  a  man  who  is 
68 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

as  good  on  a  hunting  trip  as  in  a  studio.  But 
what  Lester  most  admired  about  him  was  that 
Willyer,  unlike  most  of  the  pseudo-celebrities 
exploited  by  Mrs.  Woodling  &  Co.,  knew  the 
difference  between  conversation  and  mere  talk. 
He  always  looked  forward  to  seeing  Will 
yer  ;  they  had  tastes,  and  —  what  was  still 
more  satisfactory  —  distastes  in  common ;  they 
often  had  very  agreeable  masculine  conversa 
tions  in  mere  monosyllables.  In  short,  there 
was  never  that  infernal  sheet  of  plate  glass 
between  them  that  Lester  usually  found  seem 
ing  to  shut  him  off  from  other  men. 

Now,  in  a  single  moment  the  thought  of 
Willyer  had  become  sickeningly  painful.  If 
Pauline  did  think  Willyer  was  J.  I.,  there  was 
trouble  ahead.  But  how  the  devil  was  Lester 
to  find  out? 

Uncomfortable,  perplexed,  he  entered  her 
room.  Pauline,  without  turning,  smiled  at 
him  in  her  mirror. 

"  Say,  Pauline,"  he  seated  himself  on  her 
bed.  "  How  many  sittings  did  you  have  with 
Willyer  —  d'  you  remember?  " 

As  the  soft  lead  pencil  administered  an  ex 
tra  quarter  of  an  inch  to  her  already  perfect 
69 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

eyebrows,  Pauline  did  n't  really  recall  —  half 
a  dozen,  perhaps  —  why? 

Oh,  it  was  nothing.  Somebody  had  asked 
him,  that  was  all.  Lester  sat  watching  her, 
suffering  her  prettiness  —  hungry  to  claim  it, 
enjoy  it. 

"  Ripping  studio,  Willyer  has,  isn't  it!" 
(How  he  loathed  that  studio  now!)  "  Must 
be  a  rich  place  to  talk  in."  (What  had  she 
talked  in  it?)  "Magnificent  rugs.  Like  to 
get  him  to  pick  some  out  for  us.  Seems  to 
know  a  lot  about  such  things."  (What  other 
things  did  Willyer  know?) 

Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Willyer  was  very  clever.  She 
liked  Willyer.  So  clean,  and  so  graceful  — 
expressive  gestures,  too,  had  n't  he  ?  And 
Pauline,  rising,  turned  a  frank  gaze  at  her  hus 
band. 

She  had  turned,  however,  just  as  frank  a 
gaze  at  him  yesterday,  he  recalled,  after  she 
had  received  such  a  letter  from  John  Irons 
as  most  wives  would  hesitate  to  show  to  their 
husbands.  "If  love  is  a  unified  trinity  of 
emotions  —  spiritual,  mental,  and  physical  — 
don't  for  a  minute  imagine  that  I  am  all  Holy 
70 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Ghost !  I  don't  believe  that  any  woman  wants 
to  think  that  she  has  n't  sexual  attraction  — 
well,  then,  why  not  say  frankly  that  you  have  ? 
You  're  no  more  an  angel  than  I  am  a  phan 
tom,  and  if  I  were  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  I 
could  have  no  greater  desire  to  see  you  and 
hear  you  and  touch  you !  " 

The  sentiment  did  not  in  the  least  seem  to 
offend  her.  "  If  I  could  only  hear  your  voice, 
it  would  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know,"  she  wrote. 
"  Would  it  rend  your  delightful  veil  of  mys 
tery  if  you  should,  say,  talk  to  me  on  the  tele 
phone? —  It  is  surely  an  instrument  of  Ro 
mance.  But  yet,  you  have  such  a  graphic, 
colorful  way  of  revealing  yourself  that  I 
scarcely  think  I  should  be  surprised  if  I  did 
hear  you  speak." 

Lester  smiled  cynically.  How  often  had  he 
heard  it  said  that,  when  a  man's  wife  has  an 
affair  with  another  man,  her  husband  is  usu 
ally  the  last  one  to  hear  of  it.  At  least  they 
could  never  say  that  of  him!  And  yet,  what 
did  he  know?  Whatever  was  in  Pauline's 
mind  was,  after  all,  as  deeply  hidden  from 
him  as  any  other  guilty  wife's  secret. 
71 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Could  her  letter  mean  that  his  own  ardent 
words  went  perfectly,  in  her  mind,  with  Will- 
yer's  pleasing  personality? 

As  he  watched  her  with  Willyer,  next  day, 
she  was,  for  all  Lester  could  detect,  not  par 
ticularly  happy  or  excited  with  his  friend ;  and 
Willyer,  damn  him,  appeared  perfectly  natural, 
frank,  candid,  altogether  admirable,  as  usual. 
Yet  the  thought  that  Pauline  might  be  think 
ing  of  Willyer  as  that  impassioned  J.  I.,  who 
was  bombarding  her  with  provocative  mis 
sives,  kept  Lester  in  a  delirium  of  jealousy. 
How  the  devil  could  any  woman,  he  wondered, 
resist  Norman  Willyer  —  who  seemed  to  care 
nothing  for  any  of  them? 

On  his  way  downtown  one  morning,  uncon 
sciously  he  found  himself  turning  in  at  his 
club.  Usually  there  was  nobody  about  at  this 
hour,  and  so  by  one  of  the  big  windows  on 
the  avenue  he  selected  an  easy  chair  and  lighted 
a  cigar  to  think  things  over. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Hope,  may  I  speak  to  you  a 
moment  ?  " 

A  black  eye-glass  ribbon  dangled  before 
him,  and  Lester  looked  up  at  a  little  black, 
chopped  mustache. 

72 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Before  he  could  rise,  however,  a  chair  was 
being  pulled  up  with,  "  Say,  I  'd  like  to  apolo 
gize  to  you,  Hope  —  or  rather,  I  'd  like  to  ex 
plain." 

Again  Lester  tried  to  escape  —  but  he 
could  n't.  A  horrid  curiosity  held  him.  He 
watched  the  poet  as  one  watches  a  barnyard 
pest,  and  glared. 

"  You  remember,"  said  Smithers,  quite 
jauntily,  playing  with  his  bamboo  stick,  "  that 
night  I  took  a  certain  lady  to  the  Woodlings'  ? 
Well,  really  I  'm  afraid  I  must  have  quite  par 
donably  misinterpreted  something  she  said. 
That  is  to  say "  —  he  waved  an  effeminate 
hand  —  "  she  said  something,  or  at  least  I  un 
derstood  her  to  say  something,  about  my  writ 
ing  to  her,  you  know.  There  was  something 
of  that  sort,  anyway.  No,  just  wait  a  min 
ute,  please!  I  took  it,  naturally,  that  she 
wanted  me  to  write  to  her  —  awfully  queer 
and  all  that,  of  course,  but  how  the  devil 
could  I  help  it?  She  was  really,  you  know,  if 
I  do  say  it,  well,  what  you  might  call  encour 
aging  —  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  Oh,  hold 
on;  it  was  just  simply  a  misunderstanding.  I 
suppose  I  was  a  little  hasty  in  my  presump- 
73 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

tions,  but,  Lord,  I  don't  see  why  she  should 
have  taken  fire  the  way  she  did,  much  less  gone 
home  alone  —  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

Lester  Hope's  tense  fingers  knew,  at  that 
moment,  exactly  how  Smithers's  white  throat 
would  feel  if  his  own  two  thumbs  should  meet 
on  that  poet's  windpipe.  It  was  hard  work 
controlling  himself  enough  to  say,  "  D'  you 
mind  leaving  me  alone  ?  Or  do  I  have  to  vio 
late  the  house  rules  ?  " 

Smithers  did  not  move. 

"Good  morning!"  Lester  repeated,  rising. 
The  moment  grew  dangerous. 

"  By  Jove !  "  drawled  Smithers.  He  was 
not  looking  at  Lester,  now ;  he  was  gazing  out 
the  broad  front  window.  He  pointed  with 
his  little  bamboo  stick.  "  I  see  why  you  took 
this  seat,"  he  grinned.  "  Behold  the  beaute 
ous  lady  in  question !  I  Ve  seen  her  several 
times  lately  —  like  that.  Of  course  you  know 
Willyer's  studio  is  right  over —  Oh,  good 
morning,  Hope;  yes,  I  'm  going!  "  And  with 
an  ironic  laugh  he  was  off  before  Lester  could 
—  well,  what,  in  "a  gentlemen's  club"  could 
he  have  done  ? 

Pauline's  ermines,  now,  were  crossing  the 
74 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

street  beside  a  tall  gray  overcoat.  Now  they 
were  at  the  entrance  to  Willyer's  studio  build 
ing.  Now  they  had  disappeared. 

Well,  thought  Lester,  why  not?  It  was  all 
right  enough,  of  course.  Many  people  went 
to  Willyer's  studio.  But  somehow  his  own 
reason  had  deserted  him,  and  he  was  the  prey 
of  raging  doubts. 

"  Have  you  seen  Willyer  lately?  "  he  asked 
Pauline,  next  morning.  It  was  all  he  could  do 
to  voice  the  question. 

Pauline's  face  brightened.  "  Oh,  Les,  I 
forgot  to  tell  you.  Why,  yes,  I  had  luncheon 
with  him  at  his  studio,  yesterday.  Helen 
Ramsay  was  there.  She 's  so  silly,  lately. 
She  always  seems  to  own  that  studio." 

Did  n't  she  run  on  a  bit  hysterically  ?  he 
thought;  wasn't  there  too  much  of  Helen 
Ramsay,  too  much  explanation  of  that  partic 
ular  studio  party?  It  sounded  suspicious. 
Lester's  mood  grew  darker. 

That  evening  Willyer  dropped  in,  as  he 
often  did,  nowadays,  for  a  game  of  chess.  Of 
course  it  happened  to  be  one  of  the  few  nights 
that  Pauline  remained  at  home.  Was  it  really 
fortuitous?  Lester  wondered,  as  he  watched 
77 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

her.  There  was  no  doubt  at  any  rate  she  was 
posing  for  Willyer,  at  least  to  the  extent  of 
making  a  charming  figure  of  herself,  under 
the  lamp,  reading  her  book. 

Ordinarily,  Lester  played  a  scientific,  im 
personal  game,  that  kept  him  cool  and  unruf 
fled.  But  to-night  his  heart  beat  passionately 
in  the  crises  of  the  game,  and  he  found  himself 
desperately  fighting  a  personal  antagonist. 
Willyer's  leisurely,  artistic  hands  over  the 
board  maddened  him.  And  any  one  who  has 
ever  been  beaten  at  a  game  of  skill  by  one  who 
has  also  beaten  him  at  the  game  of  love  will 
know  how  Lester  Hope  felt  when  his  antag 
onist  pronounced  "  Checkmate !  " 

Willyer  rose,  yawned,  and  stood,  tall  and 
graceful,  by  the  mantel.  Why  the  devil 
doesn't  he  go  home,  damn  him?  Lester  said 
to  himself,  as  he  saw  Pauline's  eyes  watching 
him  admiringly. 

Willyer,  however,  seemed  disinclined  to 
move.  For  some  minutes,  his  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  his  speckled  gray  homespun  suit,  he 
regarded  his  friend  quizzically.  Next,  he 
slowly  examined  his  cuff-links  with  absorbed 
interest.  Then  his  long  fingers  pulled 

78 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

thoughtfully,  lazily,  at  his  blond  Vandyke 
beard.  Finally  he  broke  the  long  silence  by 
remarking : 

"  I  say,  I  Ve  got  some  news  for  you  people. 
I  do  hope  you  '11  like  it.  The  fact  is,  I  'm 
about  to  take  the  fatal  plunge." 

Lester  stared.  Pauline  stared.  Not  a 
word,  till  Willyer,  chuckling  at  their  surprise, 
added :  "  That 's  right.  I  'm  engaged.  It 's 
Helen  Ramsay.  She  said  I  might  tell  just  you 
two." 

Tick  —  tick  —  tick  —  tick  went  the  clock ; 
then,  "  Well,  what 's  the  matter?  "  The  voice 
of  Willyer  took  on  a  sharper,  harsher  tone. 
"  Can't  you  congratulate  me  ?  Lord,  I  should 
say  you  did  n't  approve !  " 

Up  jumped  Lester  and  clapped  him  riotously 
on  the  shoulder.  "  Congratulate  you !  Yes, 
by  Jove,  of  course  I  do ! "  Grabbing  Will- 
yer's  hand,  Lester  shook  off  the  suspicions  and 
jealousies  of  a  month  of  suffering.  "Fine! 
Fine!  Fine!  Why,  I'm  delighted!"  He 
shook  that  hand  till  Willyer's  eyes  grew  large. 
"  Why,  it 's  the  best  news  I  've  heard  for  a 
year !  —  is  n't  it,  Pauline  ?  " 

Pauline's  voice  came  calmly  enough,  but  her 
79 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

smile  was  queer.  "  Why,  yes,  of  course ! 
I  'm  really  awfully,  awfully  pleased,  Mr.  Will- 
yer !  Helen  's  such  a  dear  —  I  'm  so  fond 
of  her.  Indeed,  you  're  both  of  you  in 
luck!" 

Fairly  bubbling  over,  now,  Lester  herded 
him  into  the  dining-room  for  an  immediate 
drink,  Willyer,  apparently,  a  bit  puzzled  by 
his  tardy  enthusiasm.  As  they  left,  Pauline 
was  sitting  inert.  Pauline  was  gazing  up  at 
her  portrait  with  that  same  queer  smile. 

Many  things  he  had  repressed  (things  he 
couldn't  bring  himself  to  write  for  fear  that 
Willyer  might  get  the  credit  for  them),  now 
appeared  in  John  Irons's  letters. 

Was  she  happy?  Lester  learned  to  his  sur 
prise  that  she  was  not;  even  her  "  best  of  hus 
bands,"  apparently,  could  not  make  her  so. 

Did  she  love  that  superlative  husband  ?  She 
ignored  the  question. 

What  did  she  do  with  herself  ?  Unsuspected 
little  adventures  she  never  had  told  her  hus 
band  came  out.  It  developed,  for  instance  — 
she  made  a  joke  of  it  —  that  Peever,  dry  old 
80 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Peever,  had  tried  to  make  silly  love  to  her  — 
yes,  and  in  Lester  Hope's  own  library ! 

"  I  think  you  were  rather  rude  to  Mr.  Pee 
ver,  last  night,"  said  Pauline,  one  day  soon 
after  that.  What  could  poor  Lester  say? 
As  John  Irons,  he  had  already  said  all  that  was 
necessary.  But  Peever  never  saw  Pauline 
alone  again  in  Lester's  house. 

Queer,  however,  that  it  was  old  Peever  who 
speeded  John  Irons  up.  Lester,  seconding 
John  Irons'  fighting  toward  a  finish,  suddenly 
found  his  principal  a  bit  slow.  Why,  if  even 
Peever  could  put  in  a  few  strokes  behind  his 
back,  John  would  have  to  make  himself  more 
forcibly  felt. 

From  that  day  J.  I.  became  ubiquitous. 
Messengers  boys,  as  Pauline  stepped  into  her 
cab  in  front  of  the  house,  handed  her  notes, 
or  flowers  —  while  Lester  gazed  gloomily 
upon  the  act  from  behind  a  bedroom  window 
curtain.  That  she  might  not  forget  John 
Irons  even  for  a  day,  he  had  her  followed; 
taxicabs  drew  up  to  the  curb  when  she  emerged 
from  teas,  or  waited  for  hours  at  her  club, 
ready  to  take  her  orders.  How  did  J.  I.  know 
81 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

her  habits  so  well  ?  she  asked,  as  bewildered  as 
she  was  flattered.  J.  I.  refused  to  state.  But 
he  succeeded  in  raising  his  mystery  to  a  sec 
ond  degree.  Books  came,  confectionery  carne, 
flowers  came.  He  tried  jewelry  —  but  Pau 
line  sent  the  parcels  back. 

It  was  she  herself  who,  perhaps  uncon 
sciously,  raised  the  mystery  still  higher. 
Women  live  mainly  in  the  present,  men  in  the 
future.  It  is  not  man's  eager  desire  for  the 
denouement  that  gives  women  pleasure  in  an 
affair  of  the  heart;  it  is  the  playing  with  pos 
sibilities,  the  exquisite  unfolding  of  romance. 
And  so,  never  once  did  Pauline  ask  to  meet 
John  Irons;  and  Lester  had,  besides  his  own 
personal  energy,  the  accomplice  of  her  creative 
imagination. 

How  busy  that  imagination  was,  and  how 
dangerous  it  might  be,  he  found  out,  soon 
after  Willyer  was  removed  from  the  field  of 
suspicion. 

He  had  a  melancholy  streak,  one  day;  it 
was  after  Pauline  had  been  dining  out  for  a 
week,  and  he  had,  consequently,  not  seen  her 
even  at  breakfast. 

"  You  were  not  so  far  wrong,"  he  wrote, 
82 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  when  you  once  likened  me  to  a  prisoner  in 
a  dungeon.  For  all  hopes  I  have  of  gaining 
you,  I  am  immured  in  a  cell  of  loneliness. 
What  would  I  do  without  your  letter  every 
day  ?  By  that  one  window  through  which  you 
shine  I  get  all  I  know  of  happiness.  For  your 
ray  of  light  I  watch  daily,  and  for  that  one 
hour  I  am  joyful.  When  that  gracile  vision 
fades,  you  will  never  know  my  recidivation 
into  the  gloom  of  —  waiting!" 

Reading  it  over,  he  smiled.  "  Recidiva 
tion  "  and  "  gracile  "  were  hardly  in  his  nor 
mal  vocabulary,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  had  done  an  amusing  bit  of  unconscious 
cerebration  with  those  words.  Where  had  he 
heard  them  lately?  Oh,  yes.  In  Spenser 
Thasp's  weekly  theatrical  article. 

Queer,  too,  because  Thasp  was  Lester's  bete 
noir,  or,  more  strictly,  his  bete  rouge.  It 
was  n't  however  so  much  Thasp's  brisk  red 
hair  and  orange  mustache  that  Lester  ab 
horred;  it  was  the  fact  that  Thasp  was  per 
haps  the  most  saturating  talker  ever  tolerated 
in  an  intellectual  drawing-room;  and,  like 
most  of  his  species,  talked  mainly  about  him 
self  and  his  own  work. 

83 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

As  luck  ordained,  Thasp  appeared  next  day, 
at  one  of  the  few  dinners  of  Pauline's  which 
Lester  —  desperate  to  see  her,  watch  her, 
adore  her  —  had  decided  to  grace  as  host. 
Thasp,  he  suspected,  was  tolerated  mainly  on 
account  of  his  influence  with  the  newspapers. 
Pauline  never  lost  a  chance  —  though  always 
a  delicate,  unobvious,  ladylike  chance  —  to 
advertise  herself.  Thasp,  therefore,  was  al 
lowed  to  perform,  and  assiduously  he  did  per 
form,  upon  his  one-stringed  harp.  Peever 
yawned,  Helen  and  Willyer  held  communion 
with  their  eyes;  Mrs.  Woodling  listened,  be 
lieving,  apparently,  everything  he  said.  Pau 
line's  attention  was  a  fine  bit  of  acting  until  — 
he  had  talked  from  soup  to  ice,  laughing  heart 
ily  at  his  own  wit,  as  such  bores  ever  do  — 

"  In  point  of  fact,  the  American  stage  is  in 
a  lamentable  state  of  recidivation.  Where 
are  there  such  gracile  stars  as  Modjeska,  as 
Mary  Anderson  and  Lotta — "  and  so  on,  and 
on,  and  on  interminably. 

"  What  the  devil  is  '  recidivation  '  ?  "  mut 
tered  Willyer  in  Lester's  ear. 

His  question  was  unanswered.  Lester, 
watching  Pauline,  had  seen  her  stop,  spoon  in 
84 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

air,  staring  at  Thasp.  There  was  an  expres 
sion  on  her  face,  part  incredulity,  part  horror. 
It  was  controlled  in  a  moment,  but  until  the 
ladies  left  the  room,  she  cast  keen  glances  from 
time  to  time  at  the  critic.  Apparently  she 
was  fascinated  by  him. 

Lester  looked  on,  helpless.  She  had,  of 
course,  been  struck  by  those  two  words,  both 
rather  unusual,  and  had  recalled  their  occur 
rence  in  the  last  letter  from  John  Irons. 
Thasp,  scourge  though  he  was,  was  indubitably 
clever,  not  at  all  one  to  be  disregarded  offhand 
as  a  possible  John  Irons.  All  that  sustained 
Lester,  in  the  contretemps  —  his  own  fault  — 
was  that  expression  of  dislike  on  Pauline's 
face.  No  wonder  she  shuddered  if  she  were 
thinking  of  what  she  herself  had  written — • 
possibly  to  Spenser  Thasp ! 

It  was  not  Lester  himself,  this  time,  who 
had  to  be  saved;  it  was  Pauline.  The  proof 
of  it  was  that,  for  a  week,  she  did  not  answer 
John  Irons's  letters.  Undoubtedly  she  was 
afraid  of  committing  herself  with  the  critic 
and  was  waiting  for  further  evidence.  What, 
then,  could  be  done  to  destroy  him  ? 

A  night  of  deliberation  brought  Lester,  one 

85 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

morning,  to  Pauline's  room  with  the  informa 
tion  that  he  was  called  to  Washington  on  busi 
ness.  With  this  alibi  established,  that  evening 
he  kissed  her  good-by.  He  could  hardly  have 
gone  to  Washington,  however,  for,  two  days 
later,  Pauline  received  a  letter  from  John 
Irons  stating  that,  for  a  week,  his  address 
would  be  "  General  Delivery,  Boston." 

It  was  a  merry  answer  John  Irons  received 
in  Boston :  "  I  met  Spenser  Thasp  at  dinner 
at  the  Woodlings'  to-night,"  she  wrote,  "  and 
if  you  will  promise  to  forgive  me,  I  will  con 
fess  a  shameful  thing.  For  three  days  I  al 
most  believed  that  you  were  Thasp.  Don't  be 
insulted;  really,  the  evidence  was  damning.  I 
was  so  relieved  when  I  got  your  letter.  It 
was  such  a  satisfaction  to  know  that  '  not  be 
ing  a  bird/  you  could  not  be  in  two  places  at 
once." 

Exultant  at  this  success,  Lester  returned 
home  to  find  that  he  had  not  only  settled 
Thasp,  but,  by  his  little  trip,  had  settled  al 
most  any  possible  suspect,  as  well.  Pauline 
now  had  her  touchstone  for  them. 

"Have  you  been  in  Boston  recently?"  he 
heard  her  ask,  one  afternoon,  at  tea  time,  a 
86 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

rather  too-dashing  young  architect,  who  had 
worshiped  at  her  shrine  for  some  weeks  past. 

No;  he  had  not,  it  appeared,  eaten  brown 
bread  and  baked  beans  for  years.  Lester 
noted,  with  considerable  glee,  that  afterwards, 
when  that  suitor  called,  Pauline  spent  far  less 
time  on  the  lamentable  lack  of  prestige  given  to 
architects  as  compared  with  all  other  artists. 
Whether  they  "  signed "  their  buildings  or 
not,  she  no  longer  seemed  to  care. 

So  Pauline  applied  her  test,  and  was  able  to 
discover,  if  not  who  John  Irons  was,  at  least 
who  he  was  not.  More  than  once  Lester  was 
to  catch  that  magic  word  "  Boston  "  and  see 
her  countenance  clear  at  the  puzzled  answer: 
"  Why,  no !  What  made  you  think  I  'd  been 
there  ?  "  Another  candidate  eliminated. 

And,  each  time  he  noted  her  suspicions, 
John  Irons  quickened  his  game.  Even  if  it 
were  but  a  line  or  two,  he  managed  to  have  her 
receive  a  letter  by  almost  every  delivery.  Six 
hours  did  not  pass  without  her  being  reminded 
of  him  in  some  exciting  way.  Finally,  when 
every  expedient  he  could  think  of  had  been 
tried,  one  day  Lester  found  his  hand  reaching 
for  the  telephone. 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

He  called  her  number;  he  heard  her  say, 
"Hello!" 

He  tried  his  best  to  think  of  himself  as  some 
short,  stout  person  with  yellow  whiskers ;  hop 
ing  in  that  way  to  disguise  his  voice.  He  suc 
ceeded  somehow  in  enunciating  in  a  very  fat 
tone,  the  name  "  John  Irons." 

He  heard  her  gasp.  There  was  a  long 
silence.  Then,  "  Is  it  really  you?  "  she  asked. 
No  answer.  "Really?" 

"  Yes." 

Another  pause.  "  Well,  why  don't  you  say 
something?"  No  answer.  "Can't  you?" 

"  No." 

"Oh,  why  not?"  A  long  wait.  "Don't 
you  dare?" 

"  No." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Then,  I  suppose,  I  shall  have 
to  do  the  talking." 

"  Yes." 

"  Like  a  game  of  Forty  Questions?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  laughed.  "  Well,  am  I  ever  to  know 
who  you  are?  " 

How  curiously  his  heart  was  beating!  He 
was  talking  to  his  own  wife,  or,  rather,  he  was 
88 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

listening  to  her,  as  he  had  listened  every  day 
for  years.  Why  should  he  tremble  ? 

"  Have  you  seen  me  lately? " 

"  Yes." 

"Where?  Oh,  I  forgot;  you  can't  an- 
,swer.  Well,  you  know  this  is  hardly  fair, 
making  me  do  all  the  work  talking.  You 
know  I  'm  dying  to  hear  your  voice.  Can't 
you  say  anything  besides  '  yes  '  and  '  no'  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Are  you  still  in  love  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes."     But  he  could  hardly  get  it  out. 

And  then,  impulsively,  he  snapped  the  re 
ceiver  back  on  the  hook.  For  some  reason  he 
could  n't  quite  bear  to  go  on. 


\ 


V 

T  N  Lester  Hope's  private  office  there  was  a 
•••  well-worn  track  in  the  green  carpet  from 
the  door  to  the  window.  Traveling  that  road, 
to  and  fro,  working  out  difficult  legal  cases,  he 
had  walked  many  a  mile.  So  now  he  walked, 
but  not  as  a  lawyer;  this  case  was  not  one  for 
the  intellect,  it  was  for  the  heart. 

Well,  what,  after  six  months'  perfervid  cor 
respondence  with  Pauline,  had  he  accom 
plished?  Had  his  passionate  attempt  served 
only  to  amuse  her  ?  Was  it  merely  a  flirtation 
by  post  ?  He  could  n't  quite  believe  it.  At 
any  rate,  the  affair  should  now  be  at  the  boil 
ing  point;  if  he  had  n't  yet  won  her,  he  never 
would.  Wherefore,  at  whatever  the  risk,  the 
time  had  come,  he  decided,  to  put  his  courtship 
to  the  test  and  find  out  definitely  whether  he 
were  still  only  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband  or  had  in 
deed  become  Mrs.  Hope's  Lover. 

He  was  sick  of  the  suspense,  sick  of  the 
90 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

artificiality,  sick  of  the  deception.  To  reveal 
himself,  to  confess  the  whole  thing  to  her, 
laugh  over  it  —  and  then  to  be  together  again 
where  they  were  before  they  had  gone  astray 
—  how  he  longed  for  it!  If  Lester  Hope, 
thrown  overboard,  had  really  drowned,  his 
ghost  now  haunted  John  Irons.  The  impos 
sible,  romantic  situation  had  tired  him;  he 
wanted  reality  —  he  wanted  his  own  wife  back. 
But,  to  get  her  he  must  win  this  last  move! 
So,  many  a  time,  up  and  down  he  paced ;  many 
a  letter  he  wrote  before  he  wrote  the  one  that, 
at  last,  he  sent  her.  It  was  short : 

"  My  dear: 

"  Don't  be  afraid  that  I  have  lost  my  sense 
of  humor;  but  to-day  I  must  be  serious.  At 
any  rate,  the  question  I  want  to  ask  is  quite  in 
earnest.  My  dear,  not  knowing  me  in  the 
flesh  perhaps  you  may  have  really  got  to  think 
ing  of  me  as  a  kind  of  disembodied  spirit. 
But  I  assure  you  I  am  not.  I  am  a  live  man. 
My  love  for  you  is  real  and  human.  It  is  so 
great  that  any  attempt  to  try  to  express  it 
would  be  futile.  I  can  only  trust  that  my  sin 
cerity  has  convinced  you,  that  you  have  felt  the 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

truth,  and  that  you  care,  as  I  care.  So  far, 
I  have  been  able  to  wait  and  hope ;  but  I  can't, 
any  more.  My  dear,  I  must  know  now 
whether  you  can  love  me,  do  love  me  in  the 
way  I  love  you.  We  must  meet;  but,  before 
you  ever  see  me  you  must  answer  me.  Will 
you  answer  me?  " 

Next  morning,  Lester  went  downstairs  early. 
Pauline  rose,  and  Pauline  dressed.  Down  the 
curly  staircase,  clad  all  in  white,  she  came  a- 
singing.  Thus,  capriciously,  once  or  twice  a 
month,  this  lady  chose  to  grace  her  husband's 
breakfast. 

But  to-day,  when  she  appeared  in  the  dining- 
room,  her  whimsical  mood  perturbed  him.  He 
found  himself  watching  her  as  one  watches  a 
child  with  firearms.  Why  did  she  take  this 
particular  morning  to  honor  him,  he  wondered. 
Why,  as  she  airily  sat  down  opposite  him,  had 
she  to  be  so  gay,  to  rally  him  on  his  own 
taciturnity  ?  For,  try'  as  he  might  to  respond 
in  the  same  vein,  that  letter  of  his,  awaiting 
her,  hidden  in  the  pile  beside  her  plate,  ob 
sessed  him;  it  fascinated  him  like  a  lighted 
bomb. 

92 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Laughing  and  chattering,  she  picked  up  her 
mail  and  looked  it  over. 

"  Oh,  dear,  three  more  wedding  presents  to 
be  bought  this  month !  "  she  remarked,  sigh 
ing;  "really  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  for 
Helen  Ramsay's,  to  give  her  one  of  my  old 
manuscripts.  She  has  n't  sold  a  story  for  ages, 
poor  thing!  After  inviting  every  editor  in 
New  York  to  her  literary  dinners,  too !  "  And 
then,  while  jocosely  wondering  what  letters 
he  was  receiving  at  his  office,  meanwhile,  and 
how  did  she  know  he  was  n't  perhaps  corre 
sponding  with  some  dangerous  blonde  —  her 
persiflage  suddenly  stopped. 

In  her  hand  was  a  yellow  envelope.  She 
gave  him  a  look.  For  a  moment  she  seemed 
uncertain  whether  or  not  to  open  it ;  but,  as  his 
oatmeal  seemed  to  interest  him  extraordinarily 
just  then,  she  nonchalantly  drew  out  the  let 
ter. 

Lester,  reaching  for  the  cream,  saw  her  face 
change  quickly  while  she  read.  Then,  as  she 
laid  the  sheet  aside,  he  admired  her  control;  it 
was  far  better  than  his  own.  She  had  assumed 
woman's  favorite  disguise,  a  smile. 

The  rest  of  the  meal  was  eaten  in  silence; 
93 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

quite  the  lady  of  the  portrait  was  Pauline 
Hope. 

"Good-by,  Pauline!" 

"Good-by,  Lester!" 

As  he  left,  he  felt  as  he  had  often  felt  when, 
after  doing  all  he  could,  he  had  seen  a  jury  file 
out  to  consider  the  verdict.  He  closed  the 
door.  It  was  Pauline's  turn  again. 

Corporations  and  corporation  counsel,  re 
ceiverships,  appeals,  exceptions,  demurrers, 
rebuttals,  and  writs  of  error  confused  him  next 
day.  His  work  was  far  behind ;  that  day  it  fell 
behind  still  more.  Lester  Hope,  attorney-at- 
law,  sitting  at  a  desk  covered  with  papers, 
papers,  papers  —  and  a  pale  blue  letter  —  har 
assed  by  questions  and  telephone  calls  and  call 
ers,  read  and  reread  legal  documents  endlessly 
without  comprehension.  To  wit: 

"  It  is  understood  and  agreed  between  the 
two  parties  to  this  contract  that  /  cannot  do 
what  you  wish  —  /  cannot!"  What  did  that 
mean?  "  And  it  is  furthermore  agreed  that  if 
at  any  time  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me;  I 
know  too  little  of  you!"  Ah,  little  enough 
did  he  know,  too!  With  a  great  effort  he 
94 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

would  try  to  separate  the  two  documents,  law 
from  love,  and  keep  "  their  heirs,  assigns,  and 
administrators "  from  "  I  cannot  answer. 
You  must  not  write  to  me  again" —  but  such 
strange  terms  as  "  hereunto  set  our  hands  and 
seals  "  would  persist  in  getting  mixed  up  with 
still  stranger  sentences :  "  If  you  do  persist 
in  writing,  I  shall  be  forced  to  place  your  letters 
in  the  hands  of  my  husband! " 

All  he  could  get  through  his  head  was  that, 
dreadfully,  it  was  all  over,  his  romance;  and  he 
had  failed.  The  case  of  "  Irons  vs.  Hope " 
had  been  decided  against  him.  He  had  lost 
Pauline  a  second  time! 

That  night  he  had  his  dinner  sent  into  the 
office  and  he  worked  long  after  the  others  had 
gone.  How  often,  of  late,  he  had  stayed  there 
all  alone  with  the  one  light  at  his  desk  —  and 
Pauline!  But  now  it  all  seemed  changed  — 
cold,  empty,  desolate.  It  was  only  an  office, 
now ;  something  had  gone  that  had  once  made 
it  almost  a  home. 

"  You  must  not  write  to  me  again!"  The 
secret,  charming  creature  that  in  this  dull  room 
he  had  conjured  up  out  of  the  failure  of  his 
95 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

married  life  had  vanished  like  a   fairy  back 
again  into  the  Unreal. 

Where  were  those  roses  —  that  bunch  of  red 
roses  ?  In  the  library,  in  the  dining-room,  her 
chamber,  no  sign  of  them  he  saw ;  and  Pauline 
said  nothing.  Yet  the  florist  had  sworn  he  had 
sent  them,  that  they  had  been  received,  and 
with  them,  yes,  he  was  sure,  the  card  with  the 
inscription,  " Finis.  J.  I"  Could  Pauline 
possibly  have  thrown  them  away  ? 

Weeks  passed.  ...  In  spite  of  himself,  in 
spite  of  her  renewed  attempts  at  comradeship, 
Lester  became  with  his  wife  more  —  what 
was  it  —  distant?  Self-conscious?  Formal? 
Without  the  stimulus  of  her  letters  he  found 
himself  steadily  more  nervous  and  distraught. 
His  experiment  had  failed;  things  between 
them  were  worse,  rather  than  better. 

That  Pauline  thought  so,  too,  was  evidenced 
when,  one  day,  she  announced  that  she  was 
going  to  visit  her  mother  for  a  month  or  so. 
She  wanted  to  finish  her  new  novel  in  peace, 
that  was  her  excuse ;  but  might  n't  she  perhaps 
wish  peace  also  for  her  conscience  —  or  her 
heart?  So  Lester  wondered,  left  alone. 
96 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

In  the  unusual  quiet  of  the  house  —  for  no 
body  more  famous  than  grocers  and  bill-col 
lectors  disturbed  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband  when 
Mrs.  Hope  was  away  —  he  spent  many  a 
dreary  evening  in  thought.  And  that  evening 
was  dreariest  when  —  with  what  a  pang  he 
recognized  that  familiar  pale  blue  envelope !  — 
he  received  his  first  duty-letter  from  his  wife. 

It  told  of  the  weather,  it  told  of  the  theaters, 
it  told  of  the  state  of  her  health.  The  tears 
came  to  his  eyes,  to  read  her  perfunctory  com 
monplaces  dashed  off  in  the  same  bold,  rapid 
handwriting  that  had  indited  such  spirited  and 
gallant  messages.  Ah,  both  were  drowned, 
now  —  John  Irons  as  well  as  Lester  Hope ! 

Must  he  give  her  up?  As  time  went  on, 
stronger  and  stronger  became  his  impulse,  de 
spite  her  command,  to  write  to  her  just  once 
more.  Would  she  really  show  the  letters,  con 
fess  everything,  to  her  husband?  And  what, 
in  the  name  of  nonsense,  if  she  did?  A  tragic 
little  farce,  that,  for  an  evening  by  the  fireside 
—  he  and  Pauline  pouring  quicklime  on  the 
corpse  of  poor  John  Irons! 

And  then,  another  dismal  afternoon  when, 
unable  to  work,  he  stood  at  his  ofHce  window, 
97 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

moodily  watching  the  smoke  of  a  chimney  op 
posite,  blown  about  quite  as  fantastically  as 
was  he  himself,  the  idea  came  to  him  —  why 
not,  instead  of  forcing  her  to  confess,  confess 
himself?  Why  not  make  an  end  of  the  mys 
tery —  tell  the  whole  wretched  story  of  his 
negation,  his  wounded  pride,  his  suffering,  and 
let  come  of  it  what  would?  He  had  lost. 
The  situation,  at  any  rate  could  n't  be  worse. 
More  and  more  he  grew  inclined  to  try  it.  He 
longed  for  the  relief  of  confession.  It  did  n't 
seem  possible  any  longer  to  keep  his  misery  to 
himself. 

And  so  it  was  that  one  evening  he  sat  wearily 
down  to  his  desk  in  the  office,  and,  frowning, 
inserted  a  sheet  of  paper  into  his  typewriter. 
...  A  half  hour  passed,  .  .  .  and  then,  al 
most  automatically,  he  began  to  write.  .  .  . 

It  is  only  weak  souls  that  are  crushed  by 
suffering;  those  of  firmer  fiber  resist  to  the  end, 
and  that  very  resistance  it  is  that  finally  forces 
the  revelation  of  oneself  in  bursts  of  power. 
So,  in  Lester  Hope's  mind  the  tension  of 
months  suddenly  broke,  and  everything  that  he 
had  endured  poured  forth  with  the  unconscious 
energy  of  pure  feeling. 
98 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  I  have  searched  my  soul  for  phrases  " — 
so  Pauline  with  her  facile  grace  had  written; 
but  Lester  Hope  toyed  with  no  such  pretty 
fallacy.  His  soul  was  ransacked  by  savage 
emotions  that  snatched  mutinously  at  what 
terms  they  could  find  at  hand  and  set  them 
furiously  at  work  to  effect  their  revolt.  Not 
like  her  filigree  sentences  did  his  flash  and 
sparkle,  like  jewels  artfully  arranged.  He 
took  no  thought  of  words  —  no  adjectives  he 
chose  for  mere  literary  beauty.  The  pas 
sionate,  strong  suffering  Idea  led  him  fiercely, 
unerringly,  along  the  old,  simple,  forthright 
Anglo-Saxon  ways.  Unction  is  in  all  ele 
mental  impulse.  True  emotion  has  instinctive 
modes;  it  is  as  crisp  as  childhood,  as  dramatic 
as  a  tempest. 

This  night,  Lester  Hope  was  freeing  his 
mind  simply  and  without  shame.  Like  a  pris 
oner  who  for  months  has  been  starved  and  tor 
tured,  now,  bursting  the  bonds  of  discretion, 
bold  Truth  sprang  out  of  him  .  .  .  glowing 
with  his  new  liberty,  rejoicing  in  self-expres 
sion,  he  wrote  on  and  on.  ... 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  he  awak 
ened  from  his  absorption.  Where  was  he? 
99 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

...  He  looked  curiously  about  —  saw  that  he 
was  in  a  room  —  an  office  —  there  was  a  filing 
cabinet  —  oh,  yes,  his  office,  of  course!  He 
seemed  to  have  come  back  from  somewhere. 

The  floor  was  strewn  with  papers.  How 
many  papers  there  were !  He  picked  them  up, 
and  arranged  the  sheets,  wondering  why  he 
had  such  a  queer  sensation  —  such  a  relief. 
It  was  as  if  a  high  wind  that  had  long  been 
blowing  in  his  mind  had  abated  —  and  he  was 
at  peace. 

It  was  the  calmest  moment  he  had  known  for 
many  months  when,  lighting  a  cigar  and  tilting 
comfortably  back  in  his  chair,  he  began  to  read 
what  he  had  written.  When  he  had  finished 
he  was  almost  afraid  of  it.  No,  it  was  still  hot 
from  his  brain's  mint;  he  would  put  it  away 
till  he  could  get  a  cooler,  better  judgment  of  it 
to-morrow.  In  a  reverie  he  finished  his  cigar. 
Then  folding  the  sheets  into  his  pocket,  he  went 
home. 

,  On  the  morrow,  however,  after  re-reading  it 
calmly  in  his  library,  he  saw  that  it  would  never 
do  to  send  it  to  Pauline.  Not,  at  least,  in  that 
form.  His  pride  forbade  it.  He  had  begun 
to  tear  up  the  pages,  regretfully  one  by  one, 
100 


MRS.  HOPE'S 


when  he  stopped,  his  eye  fixed  on  the  Winged 
Victory  —  and  then  — 

On  the  shoulders  of  his  first  idea,  another 
had  suddenly  vaulted,  higher,  more  ambitious, 
more  bold,  and  waved  him  on.  Now  he  saw 
clearly  what  to  do.  That  moment  was  cli 
mactic  ;  for  an  instant  he  was  more  than  happy ; 
he  was  exultant,  thrilled.  Emancipation! 

Insistent,  that  idea  drew  him  every  night 
after  dinner  back  into  that  creative  trance  to 
write  and  rewrite,  forge  and  file,  hammer  and 
polish,  over  and  over  and  over.  The  vivid  mo 
ment  passed;  and  from  now  on  his  work  was 
like  a  hard,  slow,  laborious  fight,  night  after 
night  of  fatiguing  effort,  concentrated  exer 
tion,  pressure.  Only  the  artist  knows  that 
exquisite,  that  almost  intolerable  mixture  of 
pleasure  and  pain.  Only  the  artist  and  the 
mother  suffer  that  delicious  agony  of  creation. 

Lester  Hope  wrote  on  and  on.  Even  after 
Pauline  had  returned,  he  spent  every  evening 
writing  at  the  office. 

And  lo,  as  he  wrote,  the  haunting  ghost  of 

his  stultified  self  grew  dim  and  dimmer.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Hope's  Husband  was  vanishing!  ...  on 

and  on  he  wrote  ...  on  and  on  and  on.  .  .  . 

101 


VI 

THERE  was  a  way  Pauline  had,  whether 
she  had  been  away  a  minute,  an  hour, 
or  a  day,  of  beginning  to  speak  to  him  before 
entering  the  room,  as  if  continuing  a  conversa 
tion  she  had  only  just  left.  One  night  toward 
one  o'clock,  Lester,  looking  over  her  letters  in 
the  library,  had  scarcely  time  to  throw  them 
into  a  lower  drawer  of  his  desk  and  kick  it  shut 
before  he  heard  her  voice  in  the  hall.  Snatch 
ing  a  copy  of  "  Tom  Jones,"  he  began  to  pre 
tend  to  read  it,  upside-down. 

"  Oh,  you  really  ought  to  have  been  there 
to-night,  Lester ;  it  was  so  interesting !  "  and, 
appearing  in  the  opening  of  the  portieres, 
Pauline  continued,  yawning  prettily,  "  I  'm 
afraid  you  '11  get  awfully  stodgy  staying  by 
yourself  all  the  time." 

Upon  his  forehead  she  pressed  a  dutiful 
kiss;  listless,  she  dropped  upon  the  couch  and 
began  abstractedly  to  draw  off  her  long  suede 
102 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

gloves.  Usually,  Pauline  came  home  in  high 
spirits  with  a  lively  budget  of  gossip,  and 
would  listen  to  nothing  till  she  had  told  it  all. 
But  this  evening  to  Lester's  questions  she  gave 
only  an  absentminded,  "  Oh,  yes,  perhaps," 
twirling  her  rings  dreamily,  or  a  remote,  "  No, 
not  exactly  " ;  and  gradually  the  scene  dropped. 

After  a  while,  she  arose  restlessly  and 
walked  to  the  fireplace.  She  stood  for  some 
time  as  if  she  had  forgotten  what  she  was 
going  to  do.  Finally  she  roused;  and  when 
she  turned,  he  noticed  that  she  had  more  color 
than  usual. 

"  Some  feminine  tiff,"  thought  Lester,  re 
garding  her  with  a  husband's  eye,  "  or  else  it 's 
that  infernal  lobster  Newburgh  they  have  at 
the  WoodlingsV  But  his  diagnosis,  like  most 
husbands',  was  incorrect. 

"  Oh,  Lester,  I  had  a  talk  with  Peever  to 
night.  Remember  how  afraid  I  used  to  be  of 
him?"  A  little  nervous  laugh — (what  did 
that  mean?)  "  Well,  he 's  afraid  of  me,  now. 
About  a  new  author  he 's  discovered  —  or 
rather  he  has  n't  discovered  at  all ;  it  seems  he  's 
quite  a  mystery.  Anyway,  Peever  's  perfectly 
mad  over  this  man's  work,  whoever  he  is. 
103 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

It 's  a  short  novel.  A  sort  of  confession,  in  a 
way,  I  believe  —  an  imaginary  biography,  or 
something  like  that." 

She  was  back  on  the  couch  again,  speaking 
a  bit  excitedly,  watching  the  paper  cutter  in 
Lester's  hand  waving  slowly  back  and  forth. 

"  Why,  Peever  said  he  sat  up  last  night  and 
simply  bawled  over  it.  Can  you  imagine 
Peever's  ever  bawling  over  anything,  Les? 
And  he  's  going  to  let  me  read  the  proofs. 
I'm  awfully  —  why,  what's  the  matter? 
What  a  peculiar  expression!  Oh,  well,  you 
need  n't  smile,  Lester ;  evidently  the  book  is 
unusually  strong  and  original.  Why,  Peever 
says  it  actually  bleeds !  " 

She  took  a  new,  quick  look  at  him,  saw  the 
paper  cutter  now  calmly  slicing  an  imaginary 
cake  on  the  table,  and  added :  "  John  Irons, 
the  man's  name  is." 

No  response:  but  the  paper  cutter  had 
stopped.  "  Remember  him,  Les  ?  "  As  she 
watched  him,  the  paper  cutter  tapped  the  table 
slowly,  very  slowly;  then  it  was  laid  gently 
down. 

She  advanced  with  caution :  "  Why,  he  's 
104 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

the  man  who  wrote  me  about  reading  my  char 
acter  from  my  vocabulary.  You  thought  it  was 
so  clever." 

"  Clever !  "  Lester  smiled  enigmatically,  and 
carefully  inspected  the  end  of  his  cigar.  "I 
thought  he  was  an  ass!  " 

A  quick  frown  marked  Pauline's  displeasure. 
There  was  a  pregnant  silence ;  then,  shrugging, 
she  rose  languidly  and  drawing  the  flowers 
from  her  corsage,  she  arranged  them  in  a  vase 
—  thoughtfully.  Turning  at  last,  sweetly  she 
smiled  at  him ;  then,  "  Well,  what  have  you 
been  doing  all  the  evening,  Lester?"  Her 
tone  had  the  far-away  indifference  of  one  who 
says :  "  Remember  me  to  your  mother,"  or, 
"  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do,  let  me  know." 

That  night  he  lay  awake  for  long.  The  let 
ter  he  had  started  to  Pauline,  the  letter  that, 
running  away  with  him,  had  developed  in  such 
unexpected  fashion,  she  would  read,  now  —  in 
type !  —  and  all  the  world,  too,  might  read  it. 
His  novel  had  been  accepted ! 

But,  after  all,  what  did  that  matter,  now? 
The  writing  of  it  had  been  not  a  quest  for 
fame,  but  a  spiritual  experience,  a  passion  —  a 
105 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

cri  du  cceur.  He  smiled,  recalling  how  often 
he  had  heard  Pauline  say,  "  Oh,  I  just  love  to 
write!" 

So  he,  too,  had  hoped  some  day  to  sit 
quietly  down  with  paper,  fountain  pen,  and  a 
box  of  cigars,  and  satisfy  the  secret  desire 
which,  ever  since  he  had  first  loved  Pauline, 
he  had  sacrificed  to  make  her  ambitions  para 
mount. 

How  strange,  now,  seemed  that  pleasant, 
romantic  view  of  literary  composition!  He 
thought  of  those  nights  at  the  office  as  having 
been  crammed  with  infinitely  harder,  more  ex 
hausting  work  than  ever  he  had  put  on  Black- 
stone,  Torts,  or  Contracts.  And  so,  now,  the 
fact  that  Peever  approved  his  book  interested 
him  no  whit;  what  did  interest  him  and  kept 
him  so  long  awake  was:  how  would  it  affect 
Pauline  ? 

"  Your  little  novel  may  have  a  fair  success," 
Peever  wrote  to  John  Irons,  "  and  we  shall  be 
glad  to  put  it  into  type  as  soon  as  you  can  call 
in  and  sign  the  contract."  Peever  said  noth 
ing  whatever  about  "  bawling  "  over  the  book, 
but  he  did  rather  suspect  (from  the  address), 
that  "  John  Irons  "  was  a  pseudonym. 
106 


There   was   a   small   oblong   hole    in    the   paper,    through    which,    quite 
unsuspected,    he    could    watch    his   wife 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

John  Irons  refusing  to  call,  however,  Peever 
got  no  nearer  the  mystery  of  its  authorship. 
Following  the  agreement  he  reluctantly  mailed 
(wherein  John  Irons  became  a  "  Party  of  the 
Second  Part")  came,  a  week  or  so  later,  the 
proofs,  a  jolly  fat  roll  filling  Box  1711;  and 
then,  behold,  one  evening  in  the  library,  ap 
peared  a  similar  fat  roll  —  in  the  hands  of 
Pauline ! 

Luxuriously  reclining,  propped  with  cush 
ions  on  the  big  leather  couch,  she  began  to  read 
the  sheets.  Settled  back  in  his  Morris  chair, 
comfortably,  Lester  Hope  began  to  read  the 
evening  paper.  After  a  while,  she  was  sitting 
up  straighten  After  a  while,  he  was  sitting 
up  straighter.  After  a  while  she  moved  to  an 
easy  chair  nearer  the  lamp. 

Now  in  Lester's  newspaper,  that  evening, 
he  had  just  noticed  a  short  legal  item;  and,  as 
Pauline  read  on,  he  reached  for  the  scissors 
and  snipped  it  neatly  out.  Queerly  enough, 
after  he  had  removed  the  clipping  there  was  a 
small  oblong  hole  in  the  paper,  through  which, 
as  through  a  little  window,  he  could,  and  he 
did,  quite  unsuspectedly,  watch  his  wife. 

The  amused  smile  —  a  bit  patronizing,  even, 
109 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

at  first  —  had  already  given  way  to  a  look  of 
intense  interest  —  absorption.  At  times  lay 
ing  down  the  sheets  she  would  sit  gazing  off, 
lost;  while  Lester  ostentatiously  rustled  his 
paper  or  lit  cigars,  as  one  engrossed  in  the 
Law,  to  whom  mere  Literature  was  a  silly 
pastime. 

But  she  had  not  read  long  before  he  found 
the  look  in  her  face  growing  still  more  fascinat 
ing.  Her  lips  moved,  her  brows  drew  down. 
And  finally,  through  his  little  Judas-hole, 
Lester  saw  in  his  wife's  eyes  something  that 
gave  him  a  grim  pleasure  —  tears ! 

He  saw  her  dash  them  off.  She  rose, 
proofs  in  hand.  "  I  'm  getting  rather  sleepy, 
Les,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I  '11  go  up  to  bed." 

After  those  dull  blue  portieres  had  closed 
upon  her  abrupt  "  Good  night,"  Lester  Hope 
smoked,  smoked,  cigar  after  cigar.  ...  At 
one  o'clock,  when  he  went  upstairs,  he  noticed 
that  there  was  a  light  in  her  room.  Pausing  a 
moment  by  her  door,  he  listened ;  —  why,  was 
that  Pauline  sobbing? 

Tears,  yes;  one  sometimes  sheds  tears;  but 
one  doesn't  sob  aloud  over  mere  fiction. 
no 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

What  did  that  sobbing  mean?  Should  he 
knock  at  the  door  ?  No.  No  —  he  would 
go  on. 

Next  morning,  however,  it  was  the  aristo 
cratic  lady  of  the  portrait  who  came  down  to 
him;  her  eyes  were  hard  and  bright.  A  fort 
night  passed.  One  evening  he  patronizingly 
picked  up  a  copy  of  a  new  book,  "  The  Book 
of  Pride,"  which  had  appeared  mysteriously 
on  the  library  table,  and  idly  turned  the  pages. 
Far  from  idly  had  he  turned  those  pages  when 
he  first  received  from  the  publisher  that  very 
book ! 

Pauline  remarked  casually  that  the  novel 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  public.  The  re 
views  were  better  than  enthusiastic ;  they  were 
causing  discussion;  everybody  was  reading 
"  The  Book  of  Pride,"  and  wondering  who 
John  Irons  really  was.  Peever  had  told  her, 
in  fact,  that  the  first  edition  was  already  sold 
out. 

All  this  neither  interested  nor  surprised  him. 
What  did  surprise  him,  however,  was  a  remark 
she  made,  later,  after  he  had  acknowledged 
having  read  the  book. 

in 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  I  like  the  heroine,  rather,"  said  Lester. 

"  That 's  just  the  one  I  dislike,"  Pauline  re 
plied.  "  She  's  a  perfect  minx." 

Lester  smiled.  "  I  'm  afraid  you  don't  quite 
understand  her."  And  then  he  added,  reflec 
tively,  "  I  think  the  author  did,  though." 

"  John  Irons  ?  "  Pauline  took  up  the  novel 
and  began  thoughtfully  to  turn  the  pages. 
"Of  course  any  one  like  that  is  fascinating  to 
read  about,  but  I  mean  —  well,  actually  to  live 
with,  you  know,  I  'm  afraid  she  'd  be  trying, 
at  least." 

He  had  another  surprise  when,  one  morning, 
he  caught  a  first  sight  of  the  extraordinary  ap 
pearance  of  Post  Office  Box  No.  1711. 

Receiving  now  no  letters  from  Pauline,  it 
had  been  over  a  week  since  he  had  looked  into 
that  box.  But  this  morning  it  was  so  full  of 
letters  that,  when  he  opened  the  door,  they 
poured  out,  tumbling  upon  the  tiled  floor. 

Amazed,  he  tore  one  open.  Why,  it  was  as 
if  he  were  back  at  that  happy,  suburban  break 
fast  table  again  with  Pauline  listening  to  the 
first  flattering  tributes  to  her  stones !  But  no ; 
as  he  walked  along,  dipping  into  another  and 
another,  these  "  charmed-with-its  "  and  "  in 
ns 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

dignants,"  these  young  lady  letters  of  praise 
and  spinsters'  disapproval  were  now  the  ridicu 
lous  gratuities  of  his  own  literary  success! 
No,  he  was  not  running  for  the  7.55,  proud 
of  Pauline's  prestige,  he  was  proceeding  se 
dately  to  his  office  quite  unmoved  by  the  thirty- 
two  letters  from  strangers  testifying  to  the 
popularity  of  John  Irons. 

That  superior,  unmoved  serenity,  however, 
received  a  shock  when,  skimming  the  pile  of  let 
ters  at  his  desk,  from  "  so  human  and  so  con 
vincing  "  to  "  no  man  who  really  loved  would 
ever  act  like  that,"  he  came  unexpectedly  upon 
one  from  Pauline!  Crowded  in  and  lost 
amongst  all  the  others,  she  seemed  pathetic. 

"  My  dear  John  Irons: 

11 1  have  read  it !  What  an  alluring  plot ! 
You  won't  find  many  women,  I  'm  afraid,  who 
will  openly  approve  a  hero  who  refuses  to 
marry  his  sweetheart  just  because  she  had  sud 
denly  become  famous ;  but  all  the  same  you  're 
right,  and  every  woman  will  secretly  sympa 
thize  with  him,  as  I  certainly  do,  J.  I.  What 
ever  the  feminists  say,  there  is  n't  a  woman 
worth  having,  no,  for  that  matter,  not  the 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

stoutest,  mannishest,  most  militant  standard- 
bearer  in  the  Suffrage  Parade  who  does  n't,  at 
heart,  wish  her  lover  to  dominate.  That 's 
what '  lover  '  means,  in  woman-talk.  Strength 
of  mind  and  strength  of  body  —  that 's  what 
women  want ;  they  still  love  to  be  mastered  — 
at  least  /  do,  anyway.  That 's  the  surest  way 
to  be  happy.  I  know  that  well.  Women  love 
villains  (the  right  kind  of  villains),  and  brutes 
—  attractive  brutes,  at  least.  Surely  an  artist, 
a  creator  like  you,  will  know  what  I  mean. 

"  Don't  try  to  deny  that  the  novel  is  the 
story  of  your  o\vn  life;  I  feel  it,  I  know  it. 
No  doubt  you  have  paraphrased  the  actual  facts 
beyond  all  recognition  to  protect  that  girl,  but, 
oh,  you  must  have  lived  those  emotions,  or 
never,  never  could  you  have  made  the  story 
so  bitey  and  so  bitter.  At  first  I  hated  your 
heroine.  Then  I  pitied  her.  How  you  suc 
ceed  in  making  one  love  that  woman,  I  don't 
see.  No  doubt  because  you  have  loved  her  — 
vain  and  spoiled  though  she  was. 

"  And  talk  about  telling  my  character  from 
my  vocabulary,  what  about  '  wounded  pride ' 
and  '  shame  '  and  '  lost  self-respect '  and  '  hu 
miliation  '  ?  Why,  I  could  make  columns  and 
114 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

columns  of  your  pet  words  that  show  how  you 
must  have  suffered,  even  if  the  whole  book 
itself  weren't  full  of  pin-pricks!  Why,  J.  I., 
I  actually  cried  to  think  I  had  written  that 
cruel  letter  to  you.  Who  are  you?  What 
are  you  ?  Where  are  you  ?  '  Secrecy  ' — '  hid 
den  ' — *  reserve  ' — '  masque  ' — '  concealed  ' — 
you  must  be  as  subtle  and  as  proud  as  Satan ! 

"  Altogether  the  book  had  so  strange  an  ef 
fect  upon  me  that  I  found  myself  reading  it 
as  if  it  were  a  letter  to  just  Me.  Was  n't  that 
what  your  daring  and  flattering  mysterious 
dedication  meant?  It  brought  you  nearer  to 
me  than  all  your  letters.  Who  are  you?  I 
feel  as  if  you  were  right  in  the  next  room  and 
I  could  n't  open  the  door !  I  get  such  mys 
terious  glimpses  through  the  keyhole,  though; 
and  I  can  almost  recognize  your  voice!  But, 
whoever  you  are,  I  am  sure  you  're  a  genius. 
Oh,  I  'm  afraid  of  you,  now,  J.  I.  What  could 
you  ever  have  seen  in  me?  But  in  all  hu 
mility  I  say,  now  —  if  you  wish  it  —  I  hope 
you  do !  —  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you  — " 

So  far,  he  had  read  with  a  pleasant  excite 
ment;  but  "I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you" 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

brought  a  frown.  See  him!  That  would 
never  do.  She  had  had  her  chance ;  it  was  too 
late,  now.  The  next  line  deepened  the  furrow 
between  his  eyes.  " — that  is,  if  you  aren't 
now  too  famous  for  me." 

"  Famous !  " —  the  frown  changed  to  a 
sneer.  Was  n't  it  just  because  he  was  "  fa 
mous/'  as  she  called  it,  or  whatever  it  was 
that  all  these  letters  and  the  literary  gossip 
proved,  that  Pauline  had  suddenly  affected  this 
new  interest  in  John  Irons?  With  her  whole 
little  hero-worshiping  world  gabbling  about 
the  "  Book  of  Pride,"  of  course  she  could  n't 
afford  to  let  the  mysterious  author  go ! 

No,  he  'd  be  damned  if  he  'd  answer  the  let 
ter.  If  she  wanted  him,  now,  only  because  he 
was  famous  —  but  there  he  stopped ;  he  smiled. 

Of  all  insidious  drinks,  perhaps  none  turn 
the  head  so  effectively  as  those  that  are  smooth 
and  sweet.  Fame,  too,  is  dangerously  sweet. 
For  three  weeks  Lester  Hope  had  been  tasting 
praise  and  publicity  in  daily  doses.  Careless  as 
he  had  been  at  first  of  any  recognition,  he 
could  n't  forever  ignore  the  amusing  worldly 
rewards  of  his  literary  effort.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  he  realized  that  no  longer  was  he 
116 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  Mrs.  Hope's  Husband."  He  was  "  the  Au 
thor  of,"  he  had  a  "tag";  he  was  the 
"  famous "  John  Irons.  In  short  he  had 
"  done  something !  " 

"  Where  are  you  going  to-night,  Pauline  ?  " 
he  asked,  one  evening,  wandering  debonairly 
into  his  wife's  room  to  find  her  dressing. 

"  Oh,  just  the  Woodlings'.  Hand  me  that 
brooch,  will  you,  Les  ?  " 

He  handed  it  to  her  with  a  playful  gesture; 
she  did  not  notice  it.  Then,  hands  in  pockets, 
he  regarded  her  admiringly.  She  was  putting 
an  ornament  in  her  hair. 

Said  Lester,  "  I  believe  1  '11  go  along  with 
you." 

She  stopped,  hands  upraised,  and  stared  at 
him.  Then :  "  Oh,  I  'm  awfully  glad!  " 

He  noticed  her  equivocal  accent,  and  smiled. 
Nevertheless,  to  the  Woodlings'  he  went  that 
night,  and,  moreover,  he  thoroughly  enjoyed 
mingling  again  with  those  who  had  "  done 
something."  Self-consciousness  was  gone 
from  Lester  Hope.  He  cared  no  longer  how 
he  appeared  nor  what  people  thought  of  him. 
He  neither  posed  nor  felt  ashamed.  His  se- 
117 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

cret  so  sustained  him  that  the  very  way  he 
entered  a  room  was  different. 

Not  even  when  he  was  introduced  as  "  Mrs. 
Hope's  Husband  "  did  he  lose  his  equanimity. 
The  bony  dowager  of  the  emeralds  he  found 
himself  actually  enjoying  this  evening  as  an 
excellent  comedy  character  part.  He  enjoyed 
"  my  daughter  Pearl."  Why,  in  this  mood,  he 
could  have  enjoyed  even  talker  Thasp,  the 
Bore  Royal. 

But,  after  all,  was  n't  it  really  himself  that 
he  was  most  enjoying?  Haroun  Al-Raschid, 
no  doubt,  never  felt  himself  quite  so  much  a 
sultan  as  when  incognito  on  the  streets  of  Bag 
dad,  he  was  clapped  familiarly  on  the  shoulder 
by  a  porter,  or  asked  to  help  a  blind  beggar. 
So,  hearing  John  Irons's  name,  and  the  "  Book 
of  Pride  "  continually  buzzing  about  him,  Les- 
er  Hope  (as  one  who  fumbles  a  diamond  in  his 
pocket)  diverted  himself  with  his  paradox, 
marveling  what  would  happen  should  he  mur 
mur  into  the  jeweled  ear  that  never  yet  had 
listened  to  his  words :  "  Florrie  Woodling, 
behold  me,  your  latest  lion !  " 

Not  that  he  had  the  slightest  desire  to  do 
so.  What  overt  praise  could  equal  the  piquant 
118 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

flattery  of  overhearing  himself  and  his  work 
discussed?  Indeed,  so  delightfully  superior 
did  he  feel  in  his  modest  disguise  that  few 
farces  had  ever  pleased  him  as  did  a  little 
dialogue  he  listened  to  while  loitering  alone  by 
the  palms.  A  peep  through  the  leaves  showed 
him  that  others,  also,  might  assume  that  modest 
disguise ! 

Behind  his  beribboned  goggles,  Smithers 
was  looking  more  than  usually  important,  to 
night.  He  was  evidently  enjoying  himself. 

"  I  believe  you  are  he !  "  said  Helen  Ram 
say,  shaking  a  coy  ringer  at  him.  "  Now, 
are  n't  you?  " 

Smithers,  besides  looking  important,  looked 
wise. 

"  You  don't  dare  say  you  're  not,  at  any 
rate !  "  she  insisted. 

Smithers,  besides  looking  important  and 
wise,  looked  mysterious. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Ramsay,"  he  drawled, 
"  what  in  the  world  is  the  use  of  my  saying 
anything  at  all  about  it?  Suppose  I  do  deny 
it  —  what  would  that  prove?  If  I  really  were 
John  Irons,  wouldn't  I  deny  it,  also?  I'd 
have  to,  to  defend  my  secret,  wouldn't  I?" 
119 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

And  with  a  bland  smile  Smithers  tactily  as 
sumed  the  laurels. 

And  with  a  smile  equally  bland  Lester  Hope, 
almost  as  invisible  to  Mrs.  Woodling's  clever 
guests  as  was  John  Irons  himself,  wandered 
and  wondered  like  a  pleased  ghost  through  the 
evening's  entertainment,  not  noticing  this  time 
the  adulation  paid  to  his  wife,  but  pausing 
often  idly  to  twist  his  mustache  and  that  little 
tuft  below  his  lip,  while  maidens  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  it  must  be  Spenser  Thasp,  I  'm  sure ! " 
or  smiling  cynically  at,  "  Why  not  old  Peever, 
sly  old  dog,  himself?" 

No  one  asked  Lester  Hope's  opinion  of  the 
popular  mystery;  no  one  accused  him  of  being 
other  than  a  rather  poetic  looking  tall  lawyer. 

Helen  Ramsay  Willyer,  coming  upon  him 
thus  alone  with  his  diverting  thoughts,  smirked 
coquettishly.  "  Lester,  you  're  looking  much 
better,  lately,  d'  you  know  it  ? "  she  said. 
"  Somehow  you  're  more  —  well,  as  you  used 
to  be;  you  have  more  animation.  Why,  posi 
tively,  I  think  you  're  growing  handsome ! 
What  have  you  done  to  yourself?  Lester 
Hope,  are  you  in  love  ? "  He  admitted  it 
frankly. 

120 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Willyer,  tall  and  blond,  looking  on  with  a 
smile,  inspected  Lester  critically.  "  Helen 's 
right,  Hope,"  said  he.  "  I  've  noticed  it  for 
some  time.  I  've  made  a  study  of  your  face, 
you  know ;  I  Ve  always  wanted  to  paint  your 
portrait,  but  there  has  always  been  something 
that  baffled  me  —  something  I  could  n't  quite 
decide  upon  in  it.  I  've  got  it,  now,  though, 
and  I  believe  I  could  get  you  onto  canvas." 

Said  Pauline,  after  their  return  home,  quite 
in  her  old  mood  of  gossip,  "  Oh,  Lester,  you 
should  have  heard  that  near-sighted  old  Mrs. 
Poppity  gushing  over  me  to-night.  She  was 
so  lackadaisical  and  so  far  away!  She  said, 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Hope,  when  did  you  first  find  you 
had  this  power?  " 

"  And  d'  you  know  what  I  said  to  her,  Les 
ter?  I  just  took  out  my  powder  puff,  and  I 
powdered  my  nose,  and  I  said  in  just  exactly 
as  soulful  a  tone  as  hers,  '  Always  Mrs.  Pop- 
pity  ;  I  have  always  known  it ! '  But  wait  a 
moment.  Listen!  The  joke  of  it  was,  my 
acting  was  quite  lost  on  her.  She  had  al 
ready  begun  on  Peever.  She  was  asking  him 
who  that  splendid  distinguished  looking  man 
was,  over  there.  He  looked  so  like  a  genius !  " 

121 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Pauline  rose,  gaily  smiling,  and  touched  him 
mischievously  on  the  shoulder.  "  And  who 
d' you  think  it  was,  Lester?"  Pauline  broke 
into  laughter.  "  It  was  you!  " 

It  was  his  turn  to  laugh  when  alone  in  the 
library  after  she  had  gone  upstairs,  he  recol 
lected  his  pique  at  not  having  been  recognized 
long  ago  as  a  potential  celebrity.  Now,  al 
though  unconscious  of  betraying  any  visible 
trace  of  having  won  a  personal  victory,  that 
mystic  difference  between  ability  in  the  bud 
and  the  full  flower  of  achievement,  the  pungent, 
psychic  perfume  of  expression,  of  success, 
was  beginning  to  affect  those  about  him,  de 
spite  all  his  attempts  at  concealment.  Already 
Helen  had  noticed  it  in  his  face,  and  so  had 
Willyer  —  even  near-sighted  old  Mrs.  Pop- 
pity  !  Why,  then,  had  n't  Pauline  ? 

That  it  was  only  because  she  was  so  near  to 
him  and  so  familiar,  that  it  was  because  she 
was  obsessed  with  John  Irons,  he  decided, 
when  next  day  he  read : 

"  My  dear  J.  L : 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  ?     Are  you  always 
going  to  be  merely  a  romantic  ghost?     I  can't 
122 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

stand  it  any  longer.  I  have  always  been  afraid 
of  ghosts,  J.  I.,  and  you  haunt  me  day  and 
night,  as  if  I  had  murdered  you.  Well,  per 
haps  I  did  when  I  wrote  you  that  cruel  letter, 
so  long  ago.  But  if  I  could  only  see  you  — 
do  let  me  see  you !  —  I  could  tell  you,  perhaps, 
just  why  I  refused  to  let  you  write  to  me,  and 
then  you  would  forgive  me.  Do  say  you  will !" 

Oh,  yes,  he  thought,  bitterly,  tantalizing 
enough  it  must  be  for  poor  Pauline  to  know 
that,  when  John  Irons  was  a  nobody,  she  had 
cast  him  aside.  Well,  she  would  have  to  take 
the  consequences.  He  was  by  no  means  ca 
joled  by  her  flattery. 

No,  indeed.  That  flattery,  now,  was  becom 
ing  so  frequent  that  it  had  begun  to  lose  its 
spice.  He  got  it  not  only  in  letters,  from  the 
newspapers  and  reviews,  but  it  was  served,  hot 
and  crisp,  in  his  own  dining-room.  It  was 
more  usual  nowadays  at  those  little  literary 
dinners  that  were  making  Pauline  as  a  hostess 
in  her  way  quite  as  noted  as  Mrs.  Woodling 
in  hers,  to  see  the  foot  of  the  table  occupied  by 
Mrs.  Hope's  Husband.  Suave,  smiling,  hos 
pitable,  he  was  the  most  charmingly  harmless 
host  ever  intellectually  ignored.  And  the  most 
123 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

hospitable :  "  A  little  more  champagne,  Mrs. 
Woodling?"  "Another  cognac,  Peever?" 
Unnoticed  was  the  new  twinkle  in  Lester 
Hope's  eye.  He  felt  as  if  John  Irons  were 
surreptitiously  kicking  him,  under  the  table. 

"  A  very  nice  chap,  that  husband  of  Mrs. 
Hope's,  isn't  he?"  So  people  obviously 
thought,  as  they  talked  to  Pauline  and  her  as 
sorted  authors.  "  Such  large  boxes  of  such 
large  cigars! —  Yes,  and  so  soon  after  the 
dessert,  too;  not  a  second  of  suspense!  Such 
pleasant  compliments,  and  such  affable  ways! 
Say,  we  must  have  him  to  dinner  next  week. 
He  'M  be  so  attentive  to  Cousin  Dorothy  of 
Toronto  —  he  '11  take  her  right  off  our  hands, 
poor  thing.  She  hates  literary  talk,  and  they  '11 
hit  it  off  beautifully !  " 

And  meanwhile,  "  Have  you  read  '  The  Book 
of  Pride  '  ?  "  But  the  pretty,  privately  printed 
poetess  beside  him  had  turned  away  even  be 
fore  he  answered,  and  was  already  learning  of 
Peever,  Peever  purring  over  his  port,  that 
"  Why,  d'  you  know,  this  man  Irons  has  n't 
even  yet  cashed  the  cheque  I  sent  him  for  an  ad 
vance  on  royalties.  Eccentric  chap,  evidently." 
Lester  poured  more  port  and  encouraged  him. 
124 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  One  of  these  temperamental  artistic  crea 
tures —  apparently  no  idea  of  money." 

Lester's  sudden  grin  caught  Peever's  eye, 
and  Peever  grinned  also.  "  I  suppose,  Hope, 
as  a  business  man,  you  can  hardly  understand 
that,  eh  ?  Yes,  just  a  very  little  —  this  port  is 
excellent !  Well,  there  's  one  thing  you  do  un 
derstand,  anyway,  Hope,  you  know  good  port 
—  ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Laughter;  and  a  sweet  smile  from  Helen 
Willyer  to  little  Lester. 

"  That  heroine  of  Irons's  is  a  fascinating 
character,"  Peever  continued  to  his  port,  "  ex 
asperating,  though,  as  the  modern  literary 
woman  is  bound  to  be  —  present  company," — 
he  waved  his  glass  to  Pauline  — "  of  course  ex- 
cepted!  Wilful,  vain,  spoiled." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  exactly  spoiled,  surely,"  said 
Lester  hotly.  "  Why  don't  you  see,  she 
only—" 

But  nobody  was  listening  to  Mrs.  Hope's 
Husband.  Amidst  the  crackling  crunch  of 
celery  stalks,  the  incoming  of  glasses  of  pink 
punch,  and  the  silent  offerings  of  two  impas 
sive,  unfathomable  maids,  the  guests  were 
agreeing  that  John  Irons's  heroine  was  an  ad- 
125 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

mirable  portrait  of  a  familiar  type  of  over-esti 
mated  celebrity. 

"  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how  her  lover 
ever  stood  her,"  said  Pauline.  "  He  ought  to 
have  boxed  her  earsJ  Now,  if  /  were  ever  like 
that—" 

"  Oh,  you  'd  be  fascinating,  too,  in  John 
Irons's  eyes,"  said  Helen;  "it's  quite  obvious 
that  he  thought  her  charming,  at  least." 

"  Did  n't  he  prove  that  she  was  charming?  " 
Lester  again  ventured,  "  Is  n't  it  his  success 
just  that  he  did  vindicate  her  apparent  van- 
ity?" 

Several  impatient  looks  at  him  indicated 
plainly  that  he  had  said  quite  enough,  as  an 
amateur,  amongst  technical  experts  far  more 
competent  to  criticize.  Mrs.  Woodling,  how 
ever,  as  a  professional  hostess,  was  permitted 
an  ex-ofhcio  word. 

Thrilled,  yes,  almost  agonized  had  Mrs. 
Woodling  been  by  the  "  Book  of  Pride."  And, 
"Ah,"  she  moaned,  "  if  I  could  only  get  hold 
of  Mr.  Irons,  I  'd  give  him  a  reception  such 
as  — "  up  rolled  her  eyes  as  if  only  the  heavenly 
hosts  could  compete  with  hers,  in  splendor. 
"  Ah,  such  a  brilliant  light  to  be  hid  under  so 
126 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

mysterious  a  bushel.     It 's  so  quaint  to  be  shy, 
nowadays,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Hope?" 

Pauline  did  n't  think  John  Irons  was  neces 
sarily  shy.  Nor  apparently  did  Helen  Will- 
yer,  who  looked  suddenly  very  knowing  and 
whose  freckled  cheeks  blushed  through  her 
powder.  She  started  to  speak.  "  D'  you 
know  — "  but  the  talk  had  already  become  gen 
eral  and  unctuous  with  adjectives  of  praise. 
Eagerly  Helen  watched  her  chance,  as  they 
wondered  if  John  Irons  could  be  a  woman  — 
horrid  thought  —  if  the  book  wasn't  perhaps 
too  true  to  be  acknowledged,  and  if  it  would 
sell  a  hundred  thousand,  and  if  it  would  be 
dramatized. 

"  D'  you  know,  I  wrote  — "  Helen  began 
again,  when  again  she  was  submerged  in  the 
conversational  flood.  Still  she  hung  on  till  a 
pause  gave  her,  at  last,  her  chance. 

"  D'  you  know,  I  wrote  to  John  Irons  a  while 
ago,  and — " 

ff  You  wrote  to  him  ?  "  Pauline  faced  her 
like  a  tigress. 

The  company  sat,  spellbound.     Helen  was 
now  easily  the  heroine  of  the  party.     "  Yes, 
and  he  answered  me !  " 
127 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"  What  did  he  say?"  Everybody  leaned 
forward.  Lester  leaned  forward. 

Helen  took  her  time,  gave  a  proud  glance  at 
Willyer,  and  smiled.  "  Well,  he  was  most 
kind  and  most  interesting.  Of  course,  he 
did  n't  exactly  tell  who  he  was,  but  —  well,  I 
don't  think,  really,  I  ought  to  repeat  just  what 
he  said.  It  was  confidential." 

Lester  took  an  olive,  bit  it,  and  watched 
Helen,  hinting  and  bridling  as  she  held  the 
center  of  the  stage.  Now,  it  was  true  that, 
amongst  a  mass  of  letters  he  had  found  in  Box 
1711,  one  morning,  forwarded  from  Peever's 
publishing  house,  there  had  been  a  sentimental 
note  from  Mrs.  Willyer.  As  the  audience 
pleaded  with  her  for  more  light,  he  tried  to 
recall  just  what  he  had  written  in  answer.  To 
the  best  of  his  knowledge  it  had  run  about  like 
this: 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Willyer: 

"  I  am  sincerely  grateful  to  you  for  your  ap 
preciation  of  my  work,  and  thank  you  for  your 
kindness  in  telling  me  of  it." 

But  if  the  scene  was  comic  to  him,  Pauline, 
by  what  he  could  read  of  her  face,  found  it 
128 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

tragic.  So  darkly  did  she  regard  her  dear 
friend  Helen  that,  when  the  guests  had  gone, 
he  could  not  forbear  to  remark,  easily, 

"  I  say,  Helen  Willyer  looked  well  to-night, 
didn't  she?  Almost  beautiful." 

"  Beautiful!  "  replied  Pauline  with  asperity, 
"  I  thought  she  looked  like  a  fright.  I  never 
saw  her  so  unbecomingly  dressed !  " 

What  more  she  thought  was  evidenced  next 
day  in  her  letter  to  John  Irons: 

"  Who  are  you !  I  simply  must  know  —  I 
must  see  you.  I  don't  care  whether  you  are 
deaf  or  dumb  or  blind,  a  cripple  or  deformed, 
red,  black,  or  yellow.  I  can't  bear  it  not  to 
have  you  write  —  Oh,  I  must  see  you  —  I 
must!" 

The  letter  left  him  cold.  Her  pride,  of 
course,  had  been  piqued,  that  was  all.  She 
was  envious  and  feared  that  Helen  would  cap 
ture  the  hero  of  the  hour. 

And,  since  as  a  lover  he  had  failed  to  win 
her,  why  pursue  the  correspondence  further  as 
a  celebrity  to  please  her  vanity?  No.  He 
sat  down  to  finish  her  off  with  a  last  letter  in 
the  grand  manner.  If  Pauline  would  take  the 
129 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

bit  in  her  teeth  and  try  to  run  away  with  him, 
he  would  have  to  steer  her  toward  the  brink  of 
a  chasm  so  deep  that  she  would  simply  have  to 
stop,  a  precipice  she  would  never  dare  to  jump. 
Pauline  was  proud  of  her  position,  her  name, 
and  fame.  A  little  spoiled,  of  course,  she 
was.  Her  head  was  turned,  but  was  still  well 
set  on  her  shoulders  —  no  danger  of  her  los 
ing  it  for  a  man  she  had  tossed  aside  so 
cavalierly  —  a  man  absolutely  unknown  to  her. 
That  scandal  and  disgrace  was  impossible  for 
Mrs.  Lester,  much  less  for  Mrs.  Pauline  Hope. 
And  so,  with  one  of  those  crafty  smiles  a 
husband,  be  he  never  so  much  in  love,  some 
times  indulges  in,  secretly,  he  sat  down  to  end 
the  romance  beyond  recall. 

fe  My  dear  Pauline: 

"  Yes,  I  will  meet  you ;  but  only  on  one 
condition.  '  I  love  you '  are  ordinarily  silly, 
meaningless  words.  What  I  mean  by  them  is 
that,  if  I  cannot  be  first,  the  only  one  in  your 
life,  I  prefer  to  be  nothing.  But,  if  you  are 
ready  to  give  up  everything,  yes,  I  mean  it, 
everything  —  your  husband,  your  home,  your 
comfort,  your  reputation,  and  face  the  world 
130 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

with  me  —  then  set  your  own  time  and  place 
and  I  shall  be  there  and,  whatever  may  come, 
ready  to  protect  you  always.  If  not,  then  this 
is 

The  End." 

This  rash  epistle  he  sent  by  special  deliv 
ery  ;  when  he  reached  home  he  knew  it  must  al 
ready  have  been  delivered.  Pauline,  however, 
showed  no  sign  of  excitement;  seldom  had  he 
seen  her  so  calm.  Undoubtedly  she  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  attaching  John  Irons's  scalp  to 
her  belt.  Well,  he  thought,  thank  heaven,  the 
sorry  farce  which  had  kept  him  so  long  in  a 
fool's  paradise  was  now  played  out.  He  and 
Pauline  would  jog  on  together;  and  she  would 
never  know. 

He  was,  next  morning,  searching  absent- 
mindedly  for  some  court-plaster  in  her  cham 
ber,  when  the  half-opened  door  of  a  closet 
where  she  kept  her  hats  caught  his  eye.  Some 
thing  (why,  that  wasn't  like  a  hat!)  in  the 
shadow  (what  were  those  brown  things  — 
rosesf)  attracted  him. 

Nearer,  he  saw,  attached  to  the  withered, 
discolored  flowers,  a  card :  "  FINIS.  J.  I." 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

He  stared  at  it  uncomprehending,  then  —  he 
could  n't  quite  believe  it  —  but,  yes,  they  were 
the  same.  His  roses !  So  that  was  what  had 
become  of  them  —  she  had  kept  them!  Then 
he  had  won!  He  had  won!  Pauline  loved 
him!  He  rejoiced.  But  no,  not  him,  either; 
she  loved  John  Irons.  He  sickened.  But  he 
was  John  Irons  —  yes,  he  must  rejoice !  John 
Irons  must  win  that  he  might  win  as  Lester 
Hope. 

Slowly  he  walked  downstairs  and,  hesitat 
ing,  stopped  at  the  library  door.  Through  the 
slit  of  the  portieres  he  saw  her  bending  over 
her  desk,  writing  —  she  was  smiling,  trans 
figured. 

No,  not  for  many,  many  months  had  he  seen 
that  once-familiar  look  of  youth  and  romantic 
love.  With  that  happy,  rapt  expression,  why, 
she  might  have  been  Pauline-of-the-Violets ! 
How  often,  writing  to  her  in  his  office,  he  had 
longed  for  a  vision  of  that  mysterious  inner 
self  of  hers,  for  a  glimpse  underneath  the  mask 
she  always  wore,  now,  when  they  were  to 
gether. 

Well,  there,  at  last,  she  was  —  not  his  wife 
—  his  secret  correspondent.  He  knew  that  she 
132 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

was  writing  to  John  Irons.  He  knew  that  she 
cared  for  John  Irons.  But  that  he  himself  was 
John  Irons,  try  as  he  might,  somehow  he 
could  n't  feel.  To  him,  also,  John  Irons  was  a 
ghost. 

Lost  in  that  reverie,  he  had  scarce  time  to 
escape  before  she  had  risen  and  was  coming 
toward  him.  As  the  chameleon  changes,  some 
where  between  that  table  and  that  door  she 
changed;  and  it  was  now  Mrs.  Hope,  Mrs. 
Pauline  Hope,  who  found  him  in  the  dining- 
room,  and,  smiling  calmly,  handed  him  a  let 
ter.  For  a  moment  he  stared  at  her,  wonder 
ing  that  women  could  thrive,  yes,  and  grow 
fair  in  an  atmosphere  of  duplicity  that  would 
suffocate  a  man. 

"  D'  you  mind  mailing  this  letter  for  me, 
Lester?  "  she  said,  placidly.  "  I  've  just  writ 
ten  to  that  mysterious  Irons  person — "  she 
hesitated  — "  about  his  book.  Every  one  's 
talking  about  him  so,  I  do  hope  I  can  find  out 
who  he  is.  He  may  answer  me.  Don't  put  it 
in  your  pocket  now,  and  forget  it !  " 

He  did  not  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  did  not 
forget  it.  Once  safe  out  of  sight  and  he  was 
reading: 

133 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"My  dear  J.  L: 

"  You  know  I  am  romantic ;  I  always  was. 
I  always  shall  be,  I  suppose.  And  so  it  makes 
me  feel  appallingly  grown  up  to  have  to  say 
it,  but  what  you  ask  is  really  quite  too  rash  — 
yes,  it 's  too  romantic  even  for  romantic  me. 
As  a  writer,  I  simply  adore  the  idea ;  it 's  de 
licious.  But  as  a  flesh-and-blood  woman  of 
twenty-eight,  living  on  West  Seventy-second 
Street,  New  York  City,  in  this  year  of  our 
Lord,  well,  the  plan  won't  quite  stand  up 
straight,  exactly;  it  tumbles  over  in  my  mind. 

"  And  then,  it  is  n't  quite  fair,  is  it,  J.  I.  ? 
You  say  you  have  seen  me,  but  I  have  never 
seen  you.  To  be  sure  mentally,  even  spirit 
ually,  I  do  feel  that  I  know  you  rather  better 
than  most  women  know  their  husbands,  at  least 
better  than  I  do  mine  —  and  yet,  as  you  say, 
you  are  not  a  phantom.  You  are  a  man. 
There 's  no  doubt  about  that,  after  your  won 
derful  book!  An  actual,  face-to- face  meeting 
—  well,  it  does  have,  you  must  admit,  possi 
bilities  for  surprise  —  as  great  possibilities  as 
a  first  letter  from  a  man  you  've  known  all 
your  life!  And  it  takes  so  little  to  destroy  an 
illusion!  Not  that  I'm  afraid  —  I'm  not  a 
134 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

bit  afraid;  but  still  I  bope  you  won't  insist  on 
an  unconditional  surrender  in  advance.  I  re 
spect  you,  I  admire  you  beyond  words  —  but 
whether  I  love  you  or  not  I  cant  say  till  I  see 
you  —  and  if  I  could,  I  wouldn't.  There! 
If  you  do  love  me  as  you  say,  trust  me.  Let 's 
just  see  what  will  happen  when  the  curtain 
rises  on  you  and 

"  PAULINE." 

But  already  those  roses,  those  old,  faded 
roses,  had  reassured  him,  warmed  him  toward 
her.  Slight  evidence,  perhaps,  of  her  sin 
cerity,  but  it  gave  him  a  welcome  excuse  for  be 
lieving  her  letter.  He  was  sure  at  least  that 
she  was  not  merely  tuft-hunting.  And  if  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  winning  her  acknowl 
edged  love — (the  thing  was  impossible,  he 
saw  that,  now) — he  had  at  least,  as  John 
Irons,  reestablished  the  old  relation  of  mental 
equality  and  camaraderie.  That  much,  then, 
he  would  accept  as  his  victory.  And  so  now, 
to  have  the  mystery  over,  he  would  explode  his 
bomb  and  blow  the  romance  to  bits. 

He  wired  her  merely,  "  How  ?  When  ? 
Where?"  Her  answer  came  post  haste  the 
same  afternoon. 

135 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

"My  dear  J.  I.: 

"  Oh,  I  knew  that  if  you  really  loved  me  you 
would  be  magnanimous.  And  the  only  way  to 
prove  that  I  appreciate  your  self-denial  is  to 
acknoweldge  now  what  I  never  dared  to  ex 
press  before.  I  wrote  you  once  that  you  had 
fascinated  me,  but  what  I  did  n't  write  was 
that  long  before  our  correspondence  was  cut 
short  I  knew  quite  well  that  I  was  dangerously 
near  falling  in  love  with  you.  Indeed,  I  ended 
it  all  only  because  I  was  afraid  —  it  was 
too  dangerous.  Didn't  you  understand?  I 
simply  could  n't  bear  the  deceit  —  I  felt  too 
ashamed  and  guilty.  That  was  why  I  forbade 
you  to  write  any  more  —  it  seemed  impossible 
to  risk  the  consequences  of  letting  myself  go, 
but  you  will  never  know  what  a  struggle  with 
myself  that  decision  cost  me.  Then  I  tried  to 
forget  you ;  but  I  did  n't,  I  could  n't.  I  felt 
perfectly  lost  without  your  letters.  And  now 
your  book  has  prevented  my  ever  being  able  to 
forget  you.  It  has  affected  me  so  that  it  is 
more  dangerous  than  ever  for  us  to  meet  — 
but,  meet  you  I  shall.  I  have  to.  I  must  know 
who  you  are !  " 


136 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

There  was,  in  postscript,  an  address  where 
he  might  meet  her  —  he  recognized  it  as  the 
Willyer's  apartment,  and  remembered  that 
the  Willyers  were  away.  The  next  evening  at 
nine! 

Now  he  was  in  for  it.  And  now,  at  last,  he 
was  all  John  Irons,  rejoicing  in  his  success. 
Lester  Hope  could  wait.  As  John  Irons  he 
would  win,  and  then  — 

That  night  Lester  dined  alone,  not  knowing 
what  he  ate,  and  went  to  a  theater,  not  know 
ing  what  he  saw.  He  left,  next  morning,  with 
out  having  seen  Pauline.  Little  work  was 
done,  that  day,  at  the  office  of  Lester  Hope, 
Attorney-at-Law.  He  was  too  busy  preparing 
for  the  death  of  John  Irons.  After  to-morrow 
night  his  rival  would  be  no  more. 


137 


VII 

IN  somewhat  the  mood  of  one  who,  with 
ticket  ready  and  trunks  strapped,  sits  wait 
ing,  with  a  little  useless  time  on  his  hands, 
before  the  carriage  calls  to  take  him  to  the 
train,  Lester  Hope  in  the  library  was  attempt 
ing  rather  unsuccessfully  to  read  the  evening 
paper.  It  was  his  own  thoughts  rather  than 
the  gathering  dusk  that  prevented  him. 

Pauline,  when  he  had  come  in,  was  not  at 
home ;  but  he  had  since  heard  her  enter  and  go 
upstairs.  He  did  not  call  to  her,  but  waited 
patiently,  or  impatiently,  for  dinner  to  be  an 
nounced.  It  promised  to  be  rather  interest 
ing,  he  thought,  that  dinner  with  a  wife  on  the 
eve  of  her  clandestine  meeting  with  a  lover. 
It  would  be  an  occasion  not  many  husbands 
had  the  opportunity  and  fewer  still  the  desire 
of  anticipating. 

A  quick  click  of  the  curtain  rings  aroused 
him  from  his  reverie.  "Are  you  there,  Les 
ter?" 

138 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Pauline,  entering,  switched  on  the  electric 
light.  The  tall  library  clock  was  just  then 
striking  seven.  Lester  dropped  his  paper  and 
watched  her.  What  feminine  casuistry  would 
she  use  to  explain  her  absence  to-night,  he  won 
dered;  or  would  she  indeed  vouchsafe  to  ex 
plain  it  at  all? 

"  I  'm  going  to  dine  out  with  —  that  is,  I  've 
got  a  little  dinner  to-night."  That  was  all; 
except  that  she  showed  some  curiosity  as  to 
whether  or  not  he  was  to  be  at  home  this  eve 
ning. 

No,  this  evening,  Lester  was  thinking  of  go 
ing  out  himself. 

For  a  while  she  stood,  absorbed  in  her 
thoughts.  Her  gloves  seemed  to  require  con 
siderable  buttoning.  Then  she  took  up  a  tulip 
from  a  bowl.  Now,  to  most  persons  the  odor 
of  a  tulip  is  far  from  fragrant ;  but,  by  the  way 
Pauline  smelled  of  this  one,  it  might  have  been 
a  lily-of-the-valley. 

"  Will  you  be  home  early  ? "  she  asked 
finally. 

Lester  could  n't  say.     Would  Pauline  ? 

The  tulip  was  thrown  aside;  she  stood  si 
lently  while  the  clock  ticked  six  or  seven  sec- 
139 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

onds.  Then,  gazing  down  at  the  open  fire,  she 
replied  quietly,  "  Would  you  care  very  much  if 
I  never  came  home,  Lester  ? "  And  then, 
dropping  into  a  chair,  she  turned  to  him  to 
watch  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"What  d'  you  mean?"  He  knew,  of 
course,  just  what  she  meant,  but  her  unex 
pected  candor  had  surprised  him.  Somehow, 
he  had  n't  counted  on  her  compunction.  "  My 
dear  Pauline,"  he  said,  "  if  you  have  anything 
to  tell  me,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  stand  it. 
You  need  n't  think  you  have  to  break  it  to  me 
gently,  you  know." 

There  was  a  long,  long  pause,  while  she  sat, 
her  chin  in  her  gloved  hand,  looking  at  him 
steadfastly. 

"  Lester,"  she  began,  "  you  know  we  once 
promised  each  other  that  if  either  of  us  ever 
changed  toward  the  other  —  oh,  Lester,  you 
know  what  I  mean,  don't  you  ?  —  that  we  'd 
be  honest,  and  that  we  'd  tell  the  other?  " 

He  helped  her  out  only  with  a  nod. 

"  It  is  n't  so  much  that  I  've  changed  toward 

you,  dear,  as  that  I  've  changed  all  over.     I  'm 

not  the  girl  you  married  any  more,  Lester; 

I  'm  not  Pauline  Forr ;  I  'm  Pauline  Hope,  now 

140 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

—  and  I  've  gone  on  —  I  'm  different.  You 
can't  create  and  not  —  well,  I  don't  know, 
something  changes  you.  It 's  a  different 
world,  the  artist's.  Oh,  I  can't  explain  it, 
Lester  —  you  would  n't  understand/* 

Her  egoism  was  so  beautifully  blind  that  he 
missed  the  sting  in  her  reproach.  It  had  only 
a  grim  humor.  Consolingly  the  words 
of  "  Alice  in  Wonderland  "  came  to  him,  and 
he  thought,  " '  The  less  there  is  of  mine,  the 
more  there  is  of  yours/  John  Irons !  " 

"  And,  Lester,  there  's  something  else  I  've 
got  to  tell  you.  It 's  extraordinary,  it 's  wild 
and  rash,  I  suppose  —  but  I  can't  help  it." 
With  pity,  she  hesitated  before  she  dealt  the 
blow.  "  I  've  —  oh,  it 's  sickening  to  have  to 
tell  you,  but  —  I  've  fallen  in  love,  Lester  —  at 
least  I  think  I  have  —  I'm  afraid  I  have  — 
with  some  one  else.  I  don't  know  —  I  can't 
explain  it  even  to  myself,  but  I  —  well,  you  '11 
be  awfully  surprised,  Lester  —  it's  John 
Irons!" 

"  John  Irons !  "  Lester  repeated  stupidly. 

"  Yes,  John  Irons.     And  the  impossible  part, 
the  mad  part,  of  it  is  that  I  've  never  even  seen 
him  —  at  least  to  my  knowledge/' 
143 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Now  what  would  a  surprised  and  jealous 
husband  naturally  do,  Lester  wondered  un 
easily,  to  express  his  emotion  ?  Rage  and  rail, 
break  down  and  weep,  slay  her  with  withering 
contempt?  And  yet,  how  could  he  feign  such 
a  part  when  he  was  so  distracted  by  that  baffling 
Siamese-twin  feeling  of  combined  victory  and 
defeat?  Engrossed  by  it,  he  almost  forgot  to 
speak.  The  occasion  certainly  called  for  some 
display  of  feeling,  but  all  he  could  do  was  to 
nod  like  a  mandarin  gravely  and  remark,  "  Oh, 
yes;  I  do  recall  his  having  written  you  a  let 
ter  once."  How  flat  it  fell!  But  it  was  the 
best  he  could  do. 

It  didn't  matter.  Pauline  was  too  excited 
by  her  own  confession  to  listen;  and  while 
Lester  wondered  why  he  did  n't  himself  con 
fess  and  end  it  all,  he  was  held  entranced  by 
the  grotesqueness  of  the  situation  and  the 
nervousness  with  which  she  was  pouring  out: 
"  He  's  written  me  many  letters.  I  never  told 
you,  because  -. —  well,  because  I  was  in  love  with 
him,  I  suppose.  His  letters  '  got '  me,  just  as 
his  book  *  got '  the  public.  Oh,  I  suppose  it 
sounds  strange,  but  letters  do  reveal  so  much! 
They  tell  things,  sometimes  that  are  always 
144 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

hidden  when  one  meets  face  to  face.  One 
can  know  a  person  for  years  sometimes  and 
never  find  out  what  one  letter  will  betray.  Oh, 
you  know  how  I  used  to  be  thrilled  by  your  let 
ters,  Lester,  more  thrilled,  often,  than  when 
I  was  with  you.  I  was  a  young  girl  then;  I 
don't  know  how  they  'd  be  now  —  you  never 
write  me  letters  like  that,  any  more.  Oh,  Les 
ter  " —  the  tears  had  come  into  her  eyes  — 
"  I  know  you  won't  believe  it  and  I  can't  ex 
plain,  but  really  I  love  you,  dear,  just  as  much 
as  ever !  Really  I  do,  Lester.  That 's  the 
inexplicable  part  of  it  all  —  it  does  n't  seem  to 
take  away  anything  of  my  feeling  for  you. 
Don't  think  I  ever  can  forget  those  wonderful 
days  we  've  had  together,  dear  —  only,  I  'm 
afraid  I  care  for  him  more,  somehow,  at  least 
in  a  different  way.  I  mean  —  he  's  just  like 
another  you,  somehow,  only  more  so  —  like 
you  in  evening  dress,  or  a  romantic  costume,  or 
you  in  another  incarnation." 

She  was  getting  a  bit  hysterical ;  Lester's  very 
impassivity  seemed  to  drive  her  on.  "  When 
I  saw  that  I  was  getting  too  interested  in  him 
I  tried  to  stop  it,  Lester.  In  fact,  I  did  stop  it. 
I  did  n't  hear  from  him  for  months  and  months. 
145 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

And  then  —  oh,  if  he  had  n't  written  that  won 
derful,  terrible  book !  I  could  n't  bear  it !  It 
just  talked  to  me  —  it  took  hold  of  me  —  it 
dragged  me,  dragged  me !  It 's  no  use  my  try 
ing  to  resist  him,  I  can't,  I  can't ! " 

She  looked  up  at  him  desperately.  "  Les 
ter,  I  'm  going  to  see  him  to-night.  I  feel  as 
if  I  knew  him,  through  his  letters  and  his  book, 
as  well  as  I  know  you,  better,  even;  and  yet  I 
can't  be  absolutely  sure  whether  I  really  love 
him  or  not  till  I  have  actually  seen  him.  But 
I  could  n't  go  on  without  telling  you,  Lester ;  it 
did  n't  seem  fair,  because,  Lester,  if  he  is  what 
I  think  he  is  —  well,  it  will  be  like  touching 
a  match  to  gunpowder,  I  suppose  —  I  don't 
know  what  may  happen.  It  may  mean  — " 

She  stood  looking  at  him  for  a  moment,  her 
eyes  wet.  Then,  as  he  tried  vainly  to  make  up 
his  mind  to  tell  her  before  it  was  too  late,  she 
was  kneeling  beside  him  and  she  was  clasping 
his  hands  and  she  was  pleading :  "  Won't  you 
kiss  me,  Lester  ?  Just  one  kiss  for  • — •  for  what 
we  have  been  to  each  other?  " 

He  kissed  her  somehow;  somehow  she  left 
him.  Through  the  dull  blue  portieres  he  saw 
her  go.  ...  Then,  not  till  then,  did  the  inhibi- 
146 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

tion  of  his  will  for  a  moment  relax.  Up  he 
jumped  and  followed  her,  reaching  the  hall 
just  as  the  front  door  closed.  But  open  it  and 
call  her  he  could  not.  .  .  .  He  walked  back  to 
the  library  .  .  . 

What  now?  What  should  he  do?  The 
clock  struck  half -past  seven. 

Too  late,  he  saw  the  dilemma  he  was  in. 
How  could  he  meet  her  at  nine  o'clock!  Go 
to  that  rendezvous  as  her  lorer,  only  for  her  to 
find  —  her  husband  ?  And  she  was  expecting 
a  match  to  her  gunpowder.  Never!  Could 
she,  could  any  woman,  bear  such  a  banal  anti 
climax  at  the  very  crisis  of  her  secret,  long- 
nourished  romance?  Put  the  picturesque, 
chivalrous  ideal,  the  "  wonderful "  John  Irons 
she  had  created  (with  what  wealth  of  fervent 
fancy,  he  could  well  imagine)  into  the  plod 
ding  shoes  of  a  commonplace  lawyer  —  the  blue 
worsted  coat  and  pantaloons  of  a  man  she  saw 
every  day,  talked  with,  ate  with?  No! 

Pacing  the  floor,  back  and  forth,  back  and 

forth,   pacing,  he  argued  it.     But  if  he  did 

not  go  —  what  then?     No   excuse   whatever 

for  John  Irons's   absence  to-night  was  ade- 

147 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

quate;  even  if  it  were,  wouldn't  it  only  post 
pone  the  difficulty?  No;  more  and  more  he 
felt  it  impossible  to  tell  her  the  truth.  And 
yet  —  Pauline  waiting  for  a  lover  who  never 
came !  How  could  he  so  humiliate  her,  end  it 
all  so  miserably?  Was  there  no  other  way? 

So  Lester  Hope  sought  desperately  for  some 
means  of  avoiding  the  issue.  So  all  the  while 
he  knew  that  he  would  not,  could  not,  ever  con 
fess.  .  .  .  The  clock  struck  eight  .  .  .  half- 
past.  .  .  .  Still  irresolute,  he  struggled  with 
his  predicament,  until  he  awoke  from  his  ab 
sorption  with  a  start.  The  clock  was  striking 
nine!  His  very  indecision  had  decided  it  for 
him ;  it  was  too  late. 

Decided  it  for  him,  yes ;  but  what  about  poor 
Pauline,  a  mile  away,  waiting?  Something 
must  be  done,  and  be  done  immediately  to 
spare  her  further  mortification.  No  more  time 
for  thought,  now;  the  affair  must  be  settled 
irrevocably.  *  Thank  God,  one  resource  was 
left  —  that  modern  magic  ever  at  hand  to  pro 
tect  the  shame  of  the  coward. 

In  an  instant  he  was  at  the  telephone;  he 
called  up  Helen  Willyer's  apartment.  A  mo- 
148 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

ment  of  distressing  suspense,  then  her  fright 
ened,  anxious,  "  Hello !  " 

No  need  to  disguise  his  voice;  his  emotion 
did  that  for  him.  "Is  this  Mrs.  Hope?" 
Surely  she  would  never  recognize  that  strange, 
husky  tone. 

"Pauline?  ...  It 's  John  Irons  .  .  .  Yes, 
John  Irons!  I  can't  come  .  .  .  No,  I  can't 
meet  you  at  all,  I  can't  even  explain.  I  can 
never  come  —  never !  .  .  .  Good-by !  " 

The  'phone  clicked.  Their  romance  was 
over.  Whether  he  had  killed  or  wounded,  he 
did  n't  know ;  but  he  felt  exactly  as  if  he  had 
shot  somebody.  Well,  John  Irons  at  least  was 
dead.  No  one  ever  would  know  who  he  was, 
now,  or  what  had  become  of  him. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick  —  the  library  clock 
ticked  on  while,  unlocking  a  lower  drawer  of 
his  desk,  Lester  Hope  looked  in,  as  into  a  new- 
made  grave.  There  —  never  again !  —  there 
they  were,  her  letters.  That  was  all  he  had  of 
her,  now  —  all  he  ever  would  have  to  solace 
his  loneliness.  .  .  .  One  envelope  he  took  out 
abstractedly,  and  opened.  It  was  the  letter 
about  his  book.  .  .  .  Tick,  tickj  tick,  tick  — 
149 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

the  clock  ticked  on  as  he  sat  there,  reading  — 
dreaming.  ..."  Women  still  love  to  be  mas 
tered  "  ...  "At  least,  I  do,  any  way !"  .  .  . 
"  That 's  the  surest  way  to  be  happy,  as  I  know, 
full  well!"  .  .  . 

Suddenly  startled,  he  threw  the  letters  back 
into  the  drawer  —  just  in  time.  He  jumped 
up;  and,  as  he  stood  there  as  if  dreading  a 
ghost,  she  was  before  him  • —  Pauline,  in  a  gap 
of  the  portieres. 

Which  of  the  two  was  the  whiter,  the  more 
haggard?  A  sense  of  intolerable  guilt  un 
nerved  him;  he  trembled.  He  was  the  con 
science-stricken  sportsman ;  she  the  bird  with  a 
broken  wing. 

"  Well,  I  've  come  back,  Lester,"  she  said 
simply.  "  That  is,  if  — "  wearily  she  dropped 
down  upon  the  couch,  "  that  is,  if  you  '11  let 
me.  .  .  ."  She  sat  apathetic,  her  eyes  on  the 
floor.  ..."  He  did  n't  come." 

Lester's  eyes,  too,  were  on  the  floor.  If  he 
could  only  have  put  his  arm  about  her.,  kissed 
her,  assured  her  of  his  devotion,  made  up  in 
some  way  for  her  disappointment  —  but  he 
was  numb,  dazed.  He  tried  to  think  of  some 
thing  to  comfort  her  —  nothing  came.  For  a 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

while  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  .  .  .  tick  —  tick  — 
tick.  .  .  . 

More  wretched  now  from  the  pain  he  had 
caused  her  than  he  had  ever  been  from  his  own 
suffering,  he  waited  in  silence,  feeling  shame 
fully  inadequate  to  the  situation.  The  sports 
man  can  kill  his  wounded  bird  outright  and 
put  it  out  of  its  misery ;  but  Lester  Hope  dared 
not  act.  Nervously,  to  brace  his  courage,  he 
kept  saying  to  himself,  "  No,  she  must  never 
learn  the  truth;  it  is  ghastly,  but  she  will  re 
cover  in  time."  Whatever  happened  he  would 
let  her  at  least  keep  the  memory  of  her  romance 
inviolate,  a  poetic  mystery  to  the  end. 

After  a  while  she  roused  herself  and  said, 
languidly,  "  Lester,  would  you  mind  getting 
me  a  glass  of  milk?  I  feel  faint.  I  haven't 
had  any  dinner.  I  could  n't  eat." 

Glad  of  any  excuse  for  action  he  left  her, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  floor  .  .  . 

A  few  minutes  later  —  in  the  doorway : 
Lester  Hope  had  stopped  suddenly,  transfixed. 
A  glass  had  fallen  from  his  fingers  with  a 
crash. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ? "  Pauline  was 
153 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

demanding.  She  was  standing  by  his  desk; 
in  her  hand  was  a  pale  blue  envelope  —  one  of 
her  own  letters  to  John  Irons.  It  had  dropped 
upon  the  floor,  undoubtedly,  when  he  had 
thrown  the  others  into  the  drawer. 

"  Did  John  Irons  give  you  this  letter  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Do  you  know  John  Irons  ?  " 

No  answer.  But  in  his  countenance  was 
something  that  made  her  stare  and  stare  at 
him.  And  her  face,  too,  like  his,  was  chang 
ing,  changing,  and  her  eyes  were  as  if  she  were 
watching  the  crumbling  of  a  year's  illusions. 
Then  suddenly  they  fired  as  she  made  the  des 
perate  jump  at  an  unthinkable  conclusion. 
"You  are  John  Irons!" 

He  started  to  speak,  hesitated.  But  there 
was  little  need  to  confess,  corroboration  was  in 
his  face.  "  Did  you  write  those  letters  to  me, 
Lester  Hope?  Did  you,  did  you?  Tell  me!  " 

As  he  tried  to  put  his  arm  about  her  she 
avoided  him,  crouching  away  as  if  he  were 
something  dreadful,  and  made  her  way  10  the 
door.  One  bewildered,  incredulous  look,  and 
she  was  gone.  Up  the  stairs  he  heard  her 
stumbling;  then,  above,  a  door  slammed. 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

Below  Lester  Hope  stood,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  letter,  then  gradually  he  awoke,  his  mind 
insurgent.  It  was  all  so  stupid,  so  unreal,  so 
unnecessary!  After  all,  why  were  they  both 
suffering  so?  A  violent  revulsion  of  feeling 
swept  over  him  —  indignant  revolt  —  an  im 
perious  mandate  of  common  sense.  Lawyer 
or  novelist,  invisible  or  in  blue  worsted  suit, 
still  he  was  John  Irons.  Husband  or  ghost, 
was  n't  he  her  lover  ?  Good  God,  he  had  won 
her,  had  n't  he  ?  Why  the  devil  did  n't  he  take 
her?  Why  fear  a  bugaboo  anticlimax?  He 
had  kissed  her  with  passion  before  this,  why 
should  she  shrink  from  him  now?  There  she 
was,  right  upstairs;  what  was  he  doing  down 
here  ?  —  fool ! 

"  Women  still  love  to  be  mastered  —  at  least 
I  do,  anyway."  Why,  was  n't  it  in  that  very 
letter  he  had  just  been  reading?  "  That 's  the 
surest  way  to  be  happy!"  Take  her  at  her 
word,  fool  —  be  happy !  The  morbid  fantasy 
he  had  built  from  his  diseased  pride  fell  to 
pieces.  An  abnormal  mental  tension  was 
miraculously  freed  in  his  brain;  his  spirits 
soared,  soared,  skylarking. 

But  already  he  was  running  upstairs,  two 
155 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

steps  at  a  time,  and  now  his  hand  was  on  the 
knob  of  her  door.  Locked. 

"  Pauline!  "  he  cried,  "  let  me  in!  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Pauline!"  This  time  it  was  a  command, 
in  virile  vermilion. 

Pauline,  half -dressed,  clutching  a  white  ki- 
mona  about  her,  opened  the  door  and  looked 
out  at  him  with  frightened  eyes.  It  was  long 
since  she  had  heard  that  compelling  tone. 

In  strode  Lester  Hope,  confident  and  jubi 
lant,  and  smiled  as  for  long  he  had  not  smiled, 
at  his  wife. 

The  achievement  of  success  is  like  climbing  a 
hill.  Once  at  the  top,  and  lo,  a  new  mental 
prospect  shines  beyond.  Mrs.  Hope's  Hus 
band  had  reached  at  last  the  summit  of  his  en 
deavor,  and  there,  meeting  him  over  the  ridge 
he  found  —  himself.  Oh,  positive  enough, 
now,  was  Lester  Hope.  He  was  so  sure  of 
himself  that  he  could  play  with  the  situation, 
play  with  Pauline,  yes,  and  play  comedy.  In 
his  voice  was  the  laughter  of  victory. 

"  Mrs.  Lester  Hope,"  he  announced,  "  I  Ve 
decided  to  appeal  your  case.  I  have  won  you 
once,  and  lost  you.  I  have  won  you  twice,  and 

156 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

lost  you.  But  now,  by  the  Winged  Victory 
of  Samothrace,  I  'm  going  to  win  you  for  the 
third  time.  I  intend  to  take  your  case  up  to 
the  Supreme  Court !  " 

He  seized  that  darling  defendant  in  his  arms 
and  held  her  close.  "  And  I  am  now  going  to 
show  you,"  he  informed  her,  "  what  I  know 
about  the  Supreme  Courtship !  " 

But  Pauline  was  pushing  him  away. 
"Wait!  Wait  a  minute,"  she  was  crying; 
and  then,  with  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
she  gazed  long,  long  into  his  eyes. 

"  John  Irons ! "  It  was  scarcely  audible. 
And  then  — "  You  wrote  those  letters !  You 
—  wrote  —  that  —  book !  " 

And  as  she  looked,  looked,  over  her  rapt  face 
there  passed  admiration,  contrition,  anger, 
amusement,  disappointment,  delight  —  a  rain 
bow  of  emotions  refracted  from  the  white  light 
of  revelation. 

She  sighed,  "  Well,  in  the  last  ten  minutes 
I  Ve  thought  out  ten  whole  months,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  I  want  to  tell  you,  Lester  Irons," 
and  now  there  was  no  mood  on  her  face  but 
joy,  "  that  I  have  n't  changed  my  mind  one  bit 
about  that  self -satisfied  little  chit  of  a  heroine 
157 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

of  yours.  I  hate  her  —  just  hate  her!  And 
I  still  insist  that  if  I  had  been  your  hero,  I 
would  have  jolly  well  boxed  her  ears!  Is  it 
too  late  now,  Les? " 

It  was  Pauline-of-the-Violets  who  was  speak 
ing  to  him;  it  was  Pauline-of-the-Violets  who 
was  smiling  at  him  so  mischievously. 

But,  temptingly  though  she  leaned  to  him, 
he  did  not  box  those  ears.  Instead  — 

The  case  of  "  Irons  vs.  Hope  "  was  not  a 
long  contest,  however,  the  two  parties  to  the 
suit  —  the  blue  worsted  suit  —  soon  arriving 
at  a  happy  arrangement.  After  the  Agree 
ment  was  duly  signed  and  sealed  —  some  time 
after — Pauline  smiled  whimsically  up  into 
his  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  a  very  bad  woman,"  she 
said.  "  After  being  married  to  the  nicest  and 
cleverest  man  in  the  world,  I  have  had  two 
lovers.  But  it  is  n't  every  bad  woman  who 
can  say,  can  she,  Lester,  that  she  has  been  in 
love  three  times,  and  each  time  with  her  own 
husband !  " 


158 


VIII 

IT  was  Mrs.  Woodling's  lifelong  regret  that 
"  John  Irons  "  refused  to  disclose  his  iden 
tity  until  his  second  book  had  been  published. 
"  And  a  second  book,"  she  confided,  with  raised 
eyebrows  and  a  Woodling  smile,  "  is  usually 
such  a  drop  after  an  initial  success."  Consid 
erable  satisfaction  it  was  to  this  professional 
hostess  nevertheless,  to  sustain  her  reputation 
as  a  lion-hunter  by  being  the  first,  the  very  first, 
to  present  the  latest  popular  author  to  the  pub 
lic  in  flesh  and  blood  and  swallow-tail. 

He  had  insisted  (genius  is  always  eccentric, 
Mrs.  Woodling  well  knew, —  and  how  she  loved 
it!) — that  he  be  presented  still  as  "John 
Irons  " ;  and,  standing  beside  his  proud,  smiling 
wife,  he  was  so  introduced  to  flattering  fools 
who  had  once  ignored  him  as  "  Mrs.  Hope's 
Husband."  To  the  unillumined  his  real  name 
was  whispered  behind  Mrs.  Woodling's  bedia- 
monded  fingers ;  at  which  her  prize  exhibit  felt 
159 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

even  queerer  than  he  had  when,  coming  home 
one  evening,  he  had  found  the  Irish  night- 
watchman  sitting  on  his  front  steps  reading 
"  The  Book  of  Pride." 

Yielding  to  Pauline's  insistent  fond  demand, 
he  endured  it,  however,  for  this  one  ridiculous 
evening  only,  and  did  his  best  to  enjoy  the 
comedy,  accepting  with  an  ironic  grace  the  ex 
aggerated  reward  paid,  in  such  salons  as  this, 
to  literary  achievement.  Over  bare  shoulders, 
past  heads  tousled  and  heads  bald,  through  the 
brilliant  shifting  whirl  of  wealth  and  talent, 
style  and  beauty  gaily  chattering,  his  eyes 
roved,  meanwhile,  toward  the  dim  outer 
regions,  limbos  of  hall  and  library  and  the 
smoky  refuge  of  the  billiard  room,  questing  a 
familiar  expression  on  the  faces  of  bored  hus 
bands.  One  or  two  such  countenances  as 
suaged  his  own  ordeal. 

To  Pauline,  on  the  contrary,  the  affair,  with 
its  lights  and  laughter  was  all  solemn  earnest. 
She  glowed  at  the  "  fascinatings "  and 
"  charmings  "  and  other  adulatory  adjectives 
bestowed  upon  his  novel  by  sweet  young  things, 
low-necked,  even  as  a  mother  listens  to  the 
praise  of  an  only  child.  Eyes  burning,  uncon- 
160 


MRS.  HOPE'S  HUSBAND 

scious  even  of  her  own  pearls,  she  looked  up  at 
him,  so  handsome  and  distinguished,  as  every 
woman  with  a  third  lover  looks  at  him,  caring 
not  who  may  witness  her  infatuation. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  evening,  a  last,  late- 
arriving  lady  was  presented  to  Mr.  "  John 
Irons." 

She  was  a  round-eyed  matron  in  black  satin. 
She  was  as  soft  and  silly  as  only  a  huge  woman 
in  black  satin  can  be.  At  the  author  of  the 
hour  near-sighted  Mrs.  Poppity  let  her  senti 
mentality  gush  copiously  forth,  unwitting  that 
it  had  ever  gushed  at  him  before.  Finally  she 
turned;  and  as  her  round  eyes  rolled  toward 
the  wife  of  the  newest  celebrity,  slowly  her 
fan  swayed  back  and  forth — -back  and  forth, 
her  ostrich  fan. 

"A  —  h !  "  in  her  wistful,  far-away  tone  she 
breathed,  never  once  looking  at  Pauline's  face, 
"and  what  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Irons?"  Then, 
waiting  for  no  answer,  soulfully  she  added, 
"something  wow-derful,  I'm  sure!" 


THE  END 

161 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


7lFeb57r0 

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-'or"7 

FLU  •<    raw 

REC'D  LD 

htb  ^  9  1957 

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REC'D  LD 

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